


Please Leave a Message

by ValkeryVale



Series: Please Leave a Message [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Phone Calls & Telephones, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2013-04-21
Packaged: 2017-11-23 22:31:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 32,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/627229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValkeryVale/pseuds/ValkeryVale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A small part of him thought that Sherlock might have answered the phone and had a brilliant explanation for everything John saw. That this was all just an elaborate ruse to draw Moriarty out. Part of him just wanted to hear his voice.</p>
<p>John leaves a series of voicemail messages for Sherlock, which Sherlock in turn answers - showing what happened those first few weeks after the fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Weekly updates, hopefully. May be a long one, see how it turns out. 
> 
> Rating for language and later chapters

Mycroft stood in the dank hallway of the basement of NSY. The clerk was piling bags onto the counter, as he scanned the numbers and entered them into the computer. The sound of the keyboard echoed through the silence. Mycroft stared off into space, interested in the dull ache he felt, and he realized that it still hurt, just as much as that first day. Not so much the iceman after all.

Behind him were foot falls, creating a sharp noise that bounced off the walls.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," Mycroft said flatly, without turning around to see the smirk on the detective's face.

"Mr. Holmes. Collecting your brother's things?" Lestrade said, to make conversation.

"Must you state the obvious?" Mycroft responded smugly.

"I asked them to tell me when you arrived," Lestrade said, "Since you won't accept my calls,"

"And why would I want to talk with you?"

"That day, I never had the chance to say...I just wanted to express my condolences, on your loss," Lestrade said softly.

"Well, now you've done so. Good day Detective Inspector," Mycroft turned towards the counter and picked up the bags, pausing a moment to gaze at largest one with his brother's Belfast coat in it, and then walked a few steps away.

"I have one more thing," Lestrade said as he reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a small evidence bag holding a phone. "It's a bit scratched up, but seems to work fine," he said as he handed it over. Mycroft reached his palm out, and Lestrade slowly placed it in his hand.

"Someone's been calling it, well, not just someone," Lestrade said quietly.

"John" Mycroft concluded.

"A few hours after, you know...I was processing the phone when it rang, and I saw it was John," Lestrade said. "He left a message,"

"And did you listen to it?"

"The first one, yes, I did," Lestrade replied quickly "I left the rest,"

Mycroft slipped the phone out of the bag, and turned it on, surprised to see it still had power.

"I kept it charged, just so it would ring like normal," Lestrade muttered.

Mycroft glanced down at the screen, which showed there were 43 new voicemail messages. John had called 43 times in 3 weeks.

"One of those is mine. You can listen to it, just me saying goodbye. I assumed that's what John's been doing. Sounded like a good idea. I told him I was sorry too...for doubting him," Lestrade said, his voice breaking a bit with emotion.

"You don't believe my brother was a fraud?" Mycroft questioned,

"I did, briefly, but it didn't stick, didn't make sense. I was there, I saw him work. I know he was real, and I'll do what ever I can to make sure everyone knows that," Lestrade said emphatically.

"You and I share the same objective then," Mycroft said slowly, "Thank you, Detective Inspector" Mycroft gave him a thin smile and turned.

"If you speak to John, please tell him I am sorry. He won't take my calls either," Lestrade said regretfully.

"That's something else we share then, he refuses to speak to me as well," Mycroft said softly, and gave Lestrade a short nod, and walked down the hallway, and out the door.

His black sedan was idling at the curb, the driver stepped out and opened the boot, taking the bags and placing them in. He hurried to open the rear door for his employer.

Mycroft folded himself into the back of the car as he flipped through his brother's phone, gazing at the dates and times John had called.

"I do believe that belongs to me," a deep voice rumbled from the front passenger seat.

The colour ran from Mycroft's face as he tried to compose himself, hearing Sherlock's voice was quite a shock.

"Please, don't try to pretend you didn't know," Sherlock said shortly, as he gazed at his brother through the visor mirror.

"Sherlock...I...no, no, I didn't know. Sherlock, how can you be alive? I saw you, I claimed your body for Christ's sake!" Mycroft exclaimed, as he stared towards the front, into the mirror, as Sherlock's smug grin reached his eyes.

Sherlock turned around and leaned back. "Well, you never were as clever as me. I thought I left you obvious clues. Seeing as you never came looking for me, I had to come to you,"

Mycroft fell back into his seat and sank down. Sherlock's alive. Stunning.

"What's so interesting about my phone," Sherlock said as he reached for it. Mycroft handed it to him.

"Lestrade's been manhandling this, quite a lot," Sherlock said thoughtfully as he looked it over, "Who are all these messages from?"

* * *

_You called me, so you know who I am. You clearly own a phone, so you know what to do. Don't be boring, otherwise you can just call John, BEEP_

"Sherlock! I don't understand! Why, why did you do that! You can't do that, not you, please, this can't be happening, this isn't happening..." John's shouts decayed into sobs, as the voicemail cut off, he stopped pacing across the interrogation room and pressed his forehead against the wall.

A small part of him thought that Sherlock might have answered the phone and had a brilliant explanation for everything John saw. That this was all just an elaborate ruse to draw Moriarty out. Part of him just wanted to hear his voice. He took a deep breathe in and tried to collect himself.

Donovan gazed in at John, through the window. Even though she despised Sherlock, she had always liked John, just thought he was crazy for hanging around that psychopath. And now he had gone and offed himself right in front of John, that bastard.

John had been absolutely silent to her since she had picked him up at Bart's. Perhaps now that he's had a few hours to cool off...she turned the knob on the door and took a small step in. John immediately spun around and stared, his eyes filled with rage.

"NO, no, not you. I am not talking to you, you heartless bitch. You pushed him and pushed him, and now...You can just go fuck off!" John shouted. "I'll wait for Lestrade,"

"You may be waiting a very long time. He's still at the crime scene, and after that he's gonna have some questions of his own to answer, he'll be lucky if they only fire him," Donovan said smugly.

"Crime scene? How is a suicide a crime scene?"

"You hadn't heard? That Richard Brook fellow was up there, on that roof. Been shot in the head. Most likely Sherlock killed him to try and cover up his lies, and then couldn't live with himself,". Donovan spat out.

John quickly covered the space between him and Donovan, reaching out for her scrawny throat, when Dimmock stepped in from the hall to get between them.

"Step back John, and sit down," Dimmock ordered, "They want you upstairs Sergent,". Donovan stared John down, gave Dimmock a nod, and stormed off.

John slowly sat down, and sunk his head low.

"She's wrong, you know. Sherlock didn't kill him, although by now that's probably what the papers will be printing tomorrow," Dimmock said.

John slowly raised his head, "How do you know that?"

"The pattern of the gun powder of Sherlock's hands and Brook's, looks like he killed himself," Dimmock said quietly. Dimmock probably shouldn't have told John that, but the man deserved to know.

"Detective, let's get one thing straight. That man was James Moriarty, not Richard Brook. That man tried to blow me up after he killed innocent people, just to play a game with Sherlock" John said emphatically, "There is no Richard Brook,"

"That remains to be seen, John. Look, we've got a long night ahead of us. We have to get your involvement with Sherlock, and the kidnapping all straightened out. No one thinks you've done anything wrong, but it needs sorted. And you fled from the police after breaking the chief's nose," Dimmock said softly, trying to get John to calm down. "Although I'm sure he deserved it, he can be a bastard," Dimmock gave John a cautious smile.

John relaxed a bit, "Right, so, I'm going to be here a while then. Am I under arrest?"

"Yes, didn't Donovan explain that to you?"

John thought for a moment. He had been standing in the hallway of the emergency room, waiting for confirmation of what he already knew, that his best friend was dead. There were sounds all around him, but his ears were ringing, and it made it all sound muffled. And then, Donovan was standing there, he hadn't notice for how long. He heard her voice but didn't understand the words. She clearly wanted him to go with her, so he followed.

"Yes, I suppose she did. How long then?"

"At least tonight, you can post bail in the morning, most likely" Dimmock replied, "Shall we get started?"

* * *

John rubbed his face with his hands, and stared back at the ceiling of the holding cell. He tried, desperately, to stop seeing Sherlock falling through the air, to fix his memory so that Sherlock simply had turned round and walked off, instead of standing on the ledge and...

The door at the end of the room opened, Lestrade walked in followed by Mycroft. They strode towards John's cell, as he sat up, looked at them, and let out a laugh.

"You know, this is funny. I've done nothing wrong, and yet I am the one in here. You have Sherlock arrested and humiliated, and you betray him, by telling that mad man all about Sherlock. Both of you might as well have pushed him off of that building!" John shouted and laid back down, turned over. "Get the hell away from me!"

"Look, John, I know you're upset, just listen to me, I..." Lestrade stuttered, but stopped when Mycroft gave him a hard stare.

"You're free to go John," Mycroft said plainly.

"I don't need your charity Mycroft, my sister will bail me out in the morning" John replied shortly

"You've been cleared John. Mycroft showed the chief enough CCTV footage of you that shows you didn't have anything to do with the kidnapping. That, and apparently, Mycroft can be very persuasive," Lestrade said. He wasn't sure what Sherlock's brother had said to the chief, but he came out of his office white as a sheet and ordered Lestrade to release John immediately.

John rolled over and stared at Mycroft, "And what about Sherlock? Did you clear him as well?"

"I am working on it, it was more urgent to get you released, we can deal with Sherlock later," Mycroft replied.

"Right, because he's dead. He's got all the time in the world to wait," John said curtly, and Mycroft bowed his head down.

"He's my brother John. I lost my little brother today, I will find out what has happened," Mycroft said sternly.

And John looked at Mycroft and melted a bit, yes, he had lost his brother. Clearly, that was hitting Mycroft harder than he expected.

John cleared his throat, "So, I am free to go then?"

"Just a bit of paperwork, then, yes, you can go," Lestrade said as he opened the door.

"I'll give you a ride home John," Mycroft said quickly.

"I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but no, I can get myself home," John said as he walked out of the cell and towards the door. Lestrade followed leaving Mycroft behind.

Mycroft kept his face neutral as he watched Lestrade open the door for John, and the two of them walk away. He took a step forward towards the bars of the cell, and grasped them with both hands. He leaned his forehead against the cool metal, and began to shake and cry, letting the anguish wash over him for a moment of release. He whispered to himself "Oh Sherlock, what have you done?"

He quickly stood up straight and rubbed his face, getting himself back under control, and left.

As they silently rode in the lift, Lestrade looked John over, trying to think of what to say, how to explain, something that could comfort his friend.

"John, look, I..."

"Really, Lestrade, don't, please. I don't want to hear you try to explain. Just leave it," John forced the words out, and then the lift doors opened.

Lestrade said quickly, "I am sorry John, about Sherlock,"

John walked out of the lift silently and Lestrade slowly followed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, ended up out of town and too busy this weekend

John watched the cabbie drive off and he slowly approached 221B. He stood at the door and stared at the brass numbers and green paint. Cars drove on the street, people milled about on the pavement, headed home, headed out...How does the world keep turning and moving without Sherlock? Shouldn't the whole world stop and take notice? Why doesn't everything just come to a crashing halt?

John felt that by going into the flat, this day would become that much more real, since Sherlock would not be there. The flat would be just as they left it yesterday, before getting arrested...and then fleeing.

Part of John wanted to leave and come back tomorrow, as if that could change things. But he had to talk to Mrs. Hudson, more than likely she knew, but John felt he should see her.

He opened the door, and stepped in, and walked toward 221A. She must have been waiting, because the door opened before John knocked. She stood in the doorway, her eyes red, her arms wrapped around herself.

"John, I...please, it's not true, is it? He can't have done wha-what they said, just jumped and..." She let out a hard sob and pulled in a shuddered breathe, John reached out and pulled her into a tight embrace, feeling her body shutter with sobs.

"I know, if I didn't see it I would not have believed it myself. I don't know why he did it, I just don't understand. He couldn't have thought it was the only way out..." John had to hold it together, for Mrs. Hudson, not fall apart into a mess. She pulled from him a bit and placed her hand to his check,

"John, I just can't believe it, I can't...why would he do it?"

"He called me right before...and he wasn't making any sense, saying it was all true, that he was a fraud and a liar,"

"You know that is not true, you know it," Mrs. Hudson said in a tense whisper, John nodded his head. No more words were coming to him and he felt so exhausted. Mrs. Hudson looked over his face,

"Oh John, I'm so sorry, so sorry dear," she stepped back and grasped his hand. "You must be completely drained, can I do anything for you, cuppa tea maybe?"

John shook his head, "I'm just going to go upstairs. I am exhausted, I hope to just go to bed, maybe find out this was just all a horrible nightmare,"

She smiled weakly at him and gave him a small nod, her bottom lip quivered, she seemed to want to speak but couldn't get the words out, so she squeezed his hand gently, turned and walked back into her flat.

He slowly climbed the stairs, each step feeling harder and harder. He reached the landing, the door to the flat closed. John reached his hand out and rested it on the knob, his body giving out a long sigh and he closed his eyes. He turned the knob and pushed the door open.

What felt like somewhat of a relief, the flat was not as he and Sherlock had left it. The police had clearly completed a search, looking for clues to Sherlock's involvement in the children's kidnapping. Books and papers were about, furniture moved out of place, the sofa cushions displaced...not a complete mess, but things were all shifted about.

He glanced into the kitchen, and more of the same, glasses, and items shifted here and there. John wandered down the hall, and glanced into the bathroom, then paused outside of Sherlock's bedroom door. It was slightly ajar, so he nudged it open with his foot, and gazed in. No Sherlock in there.

He laughed to himself, like he had to make sure he wouldn't find Sherlock just there, waiting to explain everything.

He took a deep breathe, and staggered upstairs to his bedroom.

* * *

John awoke with a start at the sound of his mobile ringing. He reached out and looked at the screen. Mycroft Holmes. He really did not want to speak to Mycroft, but it could be news about Sherlock or the funeral...

"Mycroft". John said flatly

"John, I wanted to let you know, we've been able to demonstrate that Sherlock had nothing to with the kidnapping," Mycroft said "However, it may take considerable more effort and time to show that Sherlock was not a fraud. Thankfully, they realized right away he did not kill Moriarty."

Mycroft was met with only the sound of John's breathing, slightly muffled by a pillow, as he was sure to have just woken the doctor up. "John?"

"I'm here, just don't quite know what to say." John replied.

"Well, we've started plans for services, should be within the next few days, here in London. Our mother had wanted him with our father, but I had assumed Sherlock would have wanted to stay in London. What do you think John?" Mycroft asked cautiously.

"About what?" John asked.

"Being interred in London,"

"You're family Mycroft, it's up to you."

"John, you were closer to him than anyone. I do believe you may know his wishes better than I. Sherlock would rather have you decide over me anyways."

John ran his hand over his face and sighed, this situation had never entered the realm of possibilities in John's mind, and for a brief moment he nearly responded to Mycroft that they should just ask Sherlock what he wants.

"Yes, I think he would rather burial in London, a small service. The rest, I believe is for the benefit of the living, so whatever else you decide is fine," John said quietly.

"Would you consider giving a eulogy, John,"

John pulled in a sharp breathe and then forced it out. He didn't want to because he didn't want to have to give a eulogy, because Sherlock should not be dead. But perhaps that's not a good reason.

"I'll consider it, perhaps I would." John responded slowly.

"That would be appreciated, if you can. Please let me know what I can do John, I know this will be difficult for you. And so you are aware, I have a few of my people just outside the flat, keeping the media a discrete distance from the front door. Please consider them at your disposal as you travel around the city. While this media frenzy about Sherlock is happening, I don't doubt you will be a prime target for their attention"

John sighed heavily. He had not given the media much thought. He glanced over to his clock, 10:23am. He rarely slept this late into the morning. So, it must be Mycroft's men that were keeping the media from ringing the bell.

"Thank you Mycroft," John said plainly, he loathed to accept his help, but he knew it would benefit Mrs. Hudson as well.

"We'll, I'm sure we'll talk again soon, goodbye John"

"Mycroft," John said and then hung up. He stared at his phone, as his contacts screen flashed open, showing Mycroft Holmes' name and number, just below that Sherlock Holmes. John looked at the name and pressed the screen.

_You called me, so you know who I am..._

"London, I said to bury you in London. I hope that's alright. Mycroft wants me to speak, about you. I...if somehow you get this message, can you come back now, please, before this becomes real? It's not real now, not yet, I would believe it right now, if you came back. Please, Sherlock..."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's words at Sherlock's funeral...

John breathed in the cool, damp morning air and gazed out to those seated around the grave. He gripped the small podium in front of him, and closed his eyes for a moment, then slowly opened them as he spoke, focusing on the trees in the distance.

"Funerals are for the living. Gives us a chance to say goodbye and send our loved one on their way to where ever we each believe is next after this life. We gather to remind ourselves how much we cared for them and how they in turn cared for us. At least that's what I wanted to speak about today. But when I sat down to write this, I struggled." John paused and looked down at his handwritten words.

"Sherlock did not wear his heart on his sleeve, and in fact denied that he even had a heart. He treated sentiment as if it were a cancerous growth to be lanced off at the first sight. We all cared for Sherlock, expressing it in our own way, but some would say that he rarely showed how much he cared for us."

"Sherlock once told me that his mind is a hard drive, that he would delete unimportant information, like the solar system, and stored critical information, like 241 different types of tobacco ash. He built in his head what he called a Mind Palace, where he stored all this information." John shifted his weight and straightened his shoulders, he wanted them to understand, the image he had in his own mind.

"In Sherlock's Mind Palace, I have imagined that there's a room, for us. It's just like our sitting room at Baker St., with a roaring fire giving off a warm glow, the skull on the mantle, and shelves of books. In this room, I could sit in my chair, pull a book off the shelf, and read some of this critical information about us, that I know he kept and would never delete. In this room I would find the evidence that shows how much he cared."

John softened his face and looked upon Mrs. Hudson. "There's a soft leather book, within it, a drawing of Mrs. Hudson's face, every inch precise, as Sherlock had long ago memorized it. Her birthday is jotted down, along with her preferred types of teas and biscuits. And a picture of her hands, which have given Sherlock so much comfort, for she was one of the few he could tolerate a hug from."

"There's what appears to be a New Scotland Yard Detective's manual, written by Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. While Sherlock would expound on all the knowledge he has given us, he learned the form and function of being a detective from Lestrade, who is one of the few DIs that Sherlock considered competent, which is a high compliment indeed." John gave Lestrade a small nod.

"There's an old, large, hard bound book. A complicated tale of a little boy who idolized his big brother, trying to do all the things he did, trying to keep up. Not always a happy tale, but the story of two brothers more alike than either would care to admit. And then tucked in this book, there's a list of Mycroft's favorite pastries." Mycroft returned John's gaze with a tight smile.

"There's a photo album, that when it's opened, a floral perfume fills the air, the kind Sherlock described as one he always associated with his mother. Between the pages are dried and pressed lilies, her favorite flowers. And snap shots of his childhood, one of him as boy sitting on his mother's lap, as she read to him about the world, lighting his mind on fire with curiosity and the desire to learn."

John gripped the podium tighter, "Everything I am is there as well, in an old paperback, so very easy for Sherlock to read. About a broken, lonely man, whom Sherlock fixed with a brisk run through London, the thrill of the game, and his unfailing devotion and friendship."

John let his eyes touch upon those he knew, before he settled to the casket in front of him. "He watched us, absorbed us, and regardless of how hard he tried not to, he cared about us. I treasured that about him, and he seemed to learn from us how to care for each other. We all know how amazing and brilliant he was. I always struggled to keep up and understand him. And I don't understand why he left us like he did; I will spend the rest of my life wondering why and how I could have stopped it. I will not only mourn the man he was, but also the wonderful man he would have become. And I will miss my friend. I will miss you Sherlock."

John released the podium from his white knuckled grip and brought his gaze back to the people in front of him. Mrs. Hudson was quietly crying, wringing her hands in her lap. Lestrade bowed his head down. Mycroft faced his mother, who held tightly onto his arm as she looked upon the casket, and as her eyes flickered up, she caught John's gaze and stared into him.

As the last speaker, John took a step aside and walked back to his seat. Mycroft looked up and gave a small nod, at which the casket was slowly lowered into the grave.

John was eager to leave, the day had been exhausting. He and Mrs. Hudson had battled the paparazzi outside their flat and endured a harrowing ride through London as Mycroft's driver weaved in and out of traffic to loose the media tailing them. And with all of Mycroft's efforts successful, they were blessedly alone at the cemetery. But now, John needed to go, he did not want to stay and see his best friend placed into the ground forever. When Mrs. Holmes and Mycroft stood, John did as well, and started to make his way to the car, when he felt a firm hand clutch his arm, he turned to come face to face with Mrs. Holmes.

* * *

At Christmas, Mrs. Holmes had asked Sherlock to come home for the holidays. He had considered it, if John would come with him. But John had wanted to stay in London.

"Perhaps it's for the best," Sherlock had told John, "My mother is a formidable woman and can be challenging to most people."

"I'm sure you exaggerate, besides, I would wager your mother would like me just fine," John had said confidently.

Sherlock raised his brow at John, "And what makes you think that?"

"Well, I'm a friendly, likable bloke. Most mothers love me. And besides, I've survived you for this long, how hard can she be?"

"I'd wager you wouldn't last 5 minutes..."

* * *

Mrs. Holmes took in every part of John's face as she gripped his arm. Her stare was just as intense, if not more so, as Sherlock's and her face maintained a flat, seemingly emotionless facade. Her raven hair was curled with a bit of grey, and her alabaster skin had just a touch of makeup, since she was a strikingly beautiful woman, she did not need much enhancement. She was dressed immaculately, and in heels; she looked down into John's eyes. It was slightly unnerving to be under such scrutiny, John cleared his throat and found his voice.

"Mrs. Holmes, please, allow me to express my deepest condolences on your loss." John looked down at her hand that held him, but she did not let go.

She gave a slow nod. "Dr. Watson. You mentioned in your eulogy that I gave Sherlock the desire to learn."

"Yes, that was a memory Sherlock had shared with me,"

"You painted such a quaint picture of a little boy perched on his mother's lap. Such sentiment," she spat out the word, "Yes, I wanted him to learn; he needed a vast intellect to continue the legacy that his father and grandfather had begun. But instead of following that path, he became a simple detective, and wasted his genius and everything I taught him."

Mrs. Holmes tightened her grip on John's arm, took a half step closer and spoke in a quiet anger. "If you truly wonder what could have been done, to prevent my son's suicide, you need look no further than yourself. You, Mrs. Hudson, that Scotland Yard detective, and Mycroft; you're all to blame for this. You encouraged him into that lowly existence, which ultimately led to his downfall."

Mrs. Holmes released John's arm and walked away, leaving John feeling like all the air had been pulled out of him. He glanced over his shoulder to watch Mrs. Holmes push aside all that tried to express their sympathies; she barked an order at her driver, who jumped to open the door, placed her into the car, and quickly left.

John turned back to look at the grave, to see Mycroft standing alone, staring at the black stone marker emblazoned with Sherlock's name.

As John started walking to the car with Mrs. Hudson in it, he pulled out his mobile, and listened to Sherlock's deep baritone in his message.

_You called me, so you know who I am..._

"I just met your mother, at your funeral. You were right - I owe you a £100."


	4. Chapter 4

_I owe you a £100..._

Sherlock smirked and shut off his phone, as he stared out the window of Mycroft's home into the darkness of the night, curled up in a chair. He had missed the sound of John's voice these past weeks, and his dry sense of humor. He heard Mycroft's footfalls as he entered the library carrying a tray.

"I take it mother was per the usual at my funeral?"

"Yes, in rare form. I don't believe she fully appreciated the doctor's overly sentimental tribute, you know how she gets," as he settled the tea onto the table between the two chairs.

Sherlock hummed in agreement as he watched Mycroft pour the tea out and slowly stir in sugar before handing it over. Sherlock raised cup to his lips as a vibrating sound came from his suit jacket pocket.

"Is that..?"

"Yes, I'm sure it is." Sherlock said shortly as he set the cup back down.

"How many since yesterday?"

"One last night, and three in the past hour. I believe John may be on a bit of a bender this evening."

"Shall I have someone check on him?"

Sherlock took a moment to consider and then gave a slow nod. Mycroft silently pulled out his mobile and sent off a short text, which received a quick response.

"He's been home from the pub for the past hour" Mycroft said as he glanced at the time, nearly midnight. "Shall I contact Harry to check on John?"

Sherlock sipped his tea, shook his head and gave a sideways glance towards his elder brother. Mycroft had been quite solicitous since Sherlock had returned yesterday. Feeling guilty perhaps, for all he told the consulting criminal about Sherlock. Although, they did share a common goal in this endeavor.

Moriarty may have killed himself on that rooftop, but the network lived on, perhaps now in chaos without a leader. Still, plans were in place and threats against everything Sherlock cared about. And Moriarty had demonstrated to Mycroft how truly dangerous his criminal network is when he had undermined the Bond Air plans and infiltrated the three most secure locations in London. The network must be destroyed before any heir apparent could get things back under control.

Sherlock took another sip of his tea, put his cup down, and then steepled his fingers in front of his chin. He slowly closed his eyes. Mycroft could feel the mental push from Sherlock, and he stood to take his leave. He paused for the briefest of moments at the doorway to marvel at his brother, alive sitting in a chair, before he walked off to bed.

Sherlock began to gather the information he had on Moriarty, to sort it in his mind. He needed a plan. Mycroft would bring his resources to bear, but they would need a careful and surgical plan, that could start to...Why was John at the pub tonight, on a Tuesday? That was out of the norm for the doctor. He reached into his jacket for his mobile, and played the most recent message.

"I knoooow I called before, and then again, af-after that" John slurred his words, clearly quite intoxicated. "Just forget allllll a-boot that, don't listen to it. De-leeete it. Because I'm only sayin' it because I'm lonely and you're dead. HA! That's right! You won't get this message because you are dead! So, then I suppooose that's alright then, since someday I'll be dead and I can just tell you then. So, Good Night Sherlock..."

Sherlock snapped his eyes closed and inhaled sharply. Surely this is normal for mourning a friend a few weeks later and turning to drink for a bit of comfort was a salve of sorts for the pain. Sherlock thought to listen to the earlier messages, but somehow it felt wrong since John just told him not to. It all felt wrong, and Sherlock wondered...

He quickly stood and strode out of the room towards the front closet. He rummaged through Mycroft's coats until he found one suitable, and a hat. He grabbed one of the umbrellas as well and went out the door. He was immediately met by two armed body guards. He texted to Mycroft

_Let me go_

* * *

Sherlock watched from across the street, looking for signs of activity in Harry's house. The windows were dark and it seemed all was quiet. He circled the block to come to the back of the house and then scaled the small fence. Sherlock peeked into the windows again, but nothing was moving. He tried the door and luckily it was not locked.

Sherlock had been to Harry's home once, so he knew the layout and where John would be sleeping. He just wanted to see for himself, make sure that John was alright. Sherlock crept through the living room, where Harry had left the telly on and she was passed out on the sofa. He cautiously made his way to John's bedroom and pressed his ear to the door, no sound at all. Sherlock turned the knob and eased his way in.

John was asleep in his clothes on top of the blankets. His phone was still cradled in his hand. More concerning to Sherlock was that John's gun rested in the other hand.

Sherlock moved swiftly to the side of the bed. He would end this charade now, he had to protect John. He couldn't allow John's grief to push him to...this.

He was just about to rouse John when he his eyes fell upon the butt end of the gun; where the clip should be, just a hollow space. He flicked his eyes around the room for the clip, but found nothing. He slowly eased the gun from John's hand and quietly checked the chamber; it too was empty and Sherlock carefully laid the gun back down onto the bed. Sherlock softly released the breathe he had been holding. John had clearly anticipated this and done something with the ammunition to his Browning.

Sherlock stood relieved, staring down at John. There was a beam of light coming through the windows, the street lamp throwing shadows across the room and illuminating John's features. His face was tight and worn. It was the same expression he had when they had first met. The John Sherlock had met in the lab at St. Bart's was a little bit broken and sad. And so it seemed, John was feeling that way again. John's hair was mussed and he reeked of alcohol. He'd need to have Mycroft do...something, to help John with this.

Sherlock carefully untied the laces and pulled John's shoes off. He reached towards the foot of the bed for the duvet that was folded down. He slowly pulled it over John's body. He grabbed the empty glass by the bed side and went into the en suite, where he filled water from the sink, took a few paracetamol out of the cabinet and walked back into the bedroom.

Sherlock placed the pills and water down on the table by the bed and then eased himself into the small chair in the corner of the room. He knew John would assume Harry had put the pills and water there, and he'd be too embarassed in the morning to even mention it.

Sherlock watched over his best friend as he slept fitfully. He thought if he could just see John, check up on him, his mind would clear away the worry and pain, and he could focus on destroying Moriaty's network. But seeing John only intensified those feelings. This was definitely not good.

* * *

Mycroft sat in the library awaiting Sherlock's return. He was torn; part of him was deeply disappointed that Sherlock was allowing his feelings to dictate his life, to respond without thinking and follow his heart, Sherlock took a great risk to just to see John. On the other hand, it was a great relief to know that Sherlock was capable of caring and able to have such a deep connection to another human being.

Myroft knew what he should do, and he set off a text to his assistant.

* * *

As Sherlock walked back into Mycroft's house, he could see that the lights remained on in the library and he knew that Mycroft must have waited up for him in order to chide him for being foolish. And that was fine, he needed to talk to Mycroft about keeping better track of John's movements.

Sherlock walked into the library and unceremoniously plopped himself down into the chair next to Mycroft, who sat in his pajamas and robe.

Mycroft started to speak, but Sherlock started first.

"I want 24 hour surveillance on John. Cameras, microphones at work and home - all of it"

"Agreed, consider it done brother"

Sherlock gave Mycroft a nod and made a move to stand when Mycroft gave a raise of the eyebrows that asked Sherlock to sit back down.

"I know you wanted to ease your mind Sherlock, but that was an unnecessary risk. You cannot do that again" Mycroft chided.

Sherlock just rolled his eyes and sunk further into the chair. He was tired, just so tired, and he had only just began this war with Moriarty's network. He had to protect John, and doing this alone protected John. But the absence of John was distracting to say the least.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "While you were out, I thought about what would ease your mind, aside from breaking and entering Harriet Watson's home" as he reached into the pocket of his robe and took out a phone.

"I've put the good doctor's voicemail greeting on this. I'll make sure it remains charged. Perhaps it's time for you to start responding to some of John's messages with your own. When the time comes to explain all this, it could ease the way with John and make him understand why you had to do what you did and that you were thinking of him" Mycroft said softly. "I've texted you the number."

Sherlock stared at his brother, his face betraying the emotion that was building inside of him. He felt awe that his brother would even take into consideration Sherlock's feelings. He felt surprised that Mycroft had realized what Sherlock needed. And he felt such a relief to know that he could at least talk to John, in some small way.

Mycroft stood and slowly made his way out of the library. Sherlock took out his mobile and stared down at the new number in the text that Mycroft had sent. He turned and looked at his brother's back as he was walking away, and Sherlock quietly said, "Thank you brother"

Mycroft paused at Sherlock words and turned his head slightly to the side, "You're welcome Sherlock," and then walked out.

Sherlock didn't think through what it was he wanted to say, just dialed the phone.

_You've reached the voicemail box for Dr. John Watson. I am sorry I missed your call. Please leave me your name, number, and a brief message, and I shall return your call as soon as possible. Thank you and good day._

"John, it's me, um, Sherlock. If you're hearing this, then this whole ordeal must be over with and ended with either my death or success. Well, I suppose both could be possible. I do plan on being alive at the end of this, but sometimes things don't go the way I plan, so perhaps it's best if I tell you now. John, I am truly sorry for putting you through this, to have deceived you. There's nothing I wouldn't do to protect you, even kill myself, which it turns out was what I had to do. I miss you John," Sherlock paused a moment,

"I'll talk to you later John, Good Night"


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're about halfway, I think, we'll see
> 
> Thanks for reading, the kudos, and the comments. It makes it all worthwhile....

As John carried another box downstairs, his phone pinged that he had a text. He set the box down by the front door with the rest, pulled out his phone and glanced down. DI Lestrade, again. For the third time this morning.

_John, we need to talk, it's official police business. GL_

John shoved the phone back into his denims and climbed the stairs to the sitting room. The room was cluttered with half empty boxes and items from John's bedroom shoved in bags. While John was usually quite fastidious about packing, he needed to move out, now. Two days after the funeral, and the flat had started to close in on him. He couldn't stay another night in this flat, with reminders of Sherlock around every corner.

His phone started ringing in his pocket, DI Lestrade was calling now. John silenced the phone and set it on vibrate.

John squeezed through the clutter, made his way to his chair and slowly lowered himself down. His body ached from the morning activity of packing his life into cardboard boxes. He gazed over the room, at the things he had accumulated over his time here. Stacks of forensics journals that he collected, to be more useful on cases. More than a few worn out pairs of shoes from chasing criminals through the streets of London. Small notebooks filled with case notes. All of it seemed to mock him, that he would never need them again.

Piled in Sherlock's chair were a few of Sherlock's things that John was going to take with him; the deerstalker hat, the antique magnifying glass he got Sherlock for Christmas, a few of the trinkets they received from clients, and the skull.

He stared into the skull's eye sockets, as he closed his eyes and started bargaining with what ever deity, good or evil, that had the power to change this all.

_Please, I promise to dedicate myself to... anything ...world peace, ending hunger...just please bring him back._

_This is a dream - a dream that you can wake me up from now, now, any time now._

_I would give everything I have, all my money and possessions, if you can give him back to me._

_I will give you my soul, if those deals actually work, I will do it, right now, I only ask for 5 minutes to say goodbye._

There was a soft knock at the door, and John slowly turned his head. The knock came again, and Mrs. Hudson's voice called out "John dear, can I come in?"

John let his head fall to his chest, and responded "Yes Mrs. Hudson"

She came in slowly, peeking around the room.

"Getting all packed up I see."

John nodded in response, they had already talked about this last night. "I'm sorry, to leave you...I just...I can't stay here"

"I understand dear. Um, John, Inspector Lestrade is on my phone, said he's been trying to reach you."

"Well, I'm sorry he's disturbed you, but I'm not really wanting to talk to him right now."

"Yes, I know John, but he says he's outside now, and he really needs to talk to you. He's with Inspector Dimmock. They want to come up to see you"

John closed his eyes again and sighed, "Best let them in then, thank you Mrs. Hudson"

Mrs. Hudson gave a short nod and went back downstairs. The front door opened, and the sound of heavy footfalls of the two inspectors climbing the stairs filled the flat. Inspector Dimmock pushed open the sitting room door and shuffled in amongst the boxes, with Lestrade hanging a bit back in the hallway

"Inspector Dimmock, I'd offer you a seat, but as you can see..." John gestured about the room, the sofa and chairs all covered up. "What can I do for you?" John's gaze completely focused on the younger inspector, not willing to acknowledge Lestrade's presence. John had been as gracious as possible at the funeral to Lestrade and Mycroft, but he was still so angry at them for...everything.

Dimmock looked a bit sheepishly as he said "John, I can see you're busy. I-I know this is a difficult time for you. But, well, I'm afraid, I mean, I need you to...that is to say, we need you t-to" Dimmock stammered as he glanced back to Lestrade.

Lestrade stepped into the doorway and looked straight at John, saw the anger still on his face, and then looked down to the floor.

"All of the cases. Every single case that Sherlock was involved with, the Yard wants reviewed. They've already received appeals from some of the criminals Sherlock helped put away, saying that the fake consulting detective actually committed the crimes, that they were paid by him, or were framed by him." Lestrade spat the words out in disgust; the thought that those criminals could just go free...

"My god, how many cases?" John exclaimed.

"We don't really know. We didn't keep records. Between Lestrade, myself, and Gregson - it could be a hundred, or more. Without records, we believe we could get some saying that Sherlock worked on their cases when he didn't at all," Dimmock said.

"And you need from me, what, records of Sherlock's cases? I mean, he was working with you for years before I was." John said.

"Yes, and the cases you were involved with, we could use your help. But we also need to look around here, in the flat, for any of Sherlock's case files, notes," Lestrade said carefully.

"Do you have a search warrant?" John asked a bit spitefully.

Lestrade sagged his shoulders and sighed "I can get one, if I have to. I thought I'd just ask you. This would certainly help prove he was the real thing."

John eased the tension in his face a little, and shook his head "I don't think I'm even the right person to ask. All of these things are Mycroft's now. I would imagine you'd need his permission"

"We did ask Mycroft. And while they've not officially read Sherlock's will, Mycroft indicated that Sherlock left the contents of the flat and the money in your joint bank account to you. He's getting the paperwork ready as we speak." Lestrade explained.

John was stunned and tried to comprehend what Lestrade was saying. "Wh-what? What joint account? I don't have a joint account with Sherlock? He left me all of his things, why?" It didn't make sense, no sense at all.

"John, he just did, I don't know why. The account is where he put the fees from private cases, is what Mycroft said. And as for his things, maybe he just didn't want Mycroft going through his stuff" Lestrade said lightly.

John stared down to the floor and gave a small smirk. That was as good of reason as any.

"Besides, you were his only friend John" Lestrade added quietly.

John lifted his gaze to linger over the inspector's face and he saw the pain pressed into the man's features, the anguish. John wasn't ready to forgive, but Lestrade couldn't really think...

"No, I wasn't his only friend." John said as he stood up from his chair. "Right, well, if it's up to me then, I suppose we should start looking." The three of them looked around at the terrible mess John had created this morning packing. "Wish I had known about this a few hours ago" as he dove in to moving his boxes out of the way.

* * *

Hours later, they had amassed quite a collection of notebooks and scraps of papers, photos, and files off of Sherlock's computer. John was sitting on the floor of Sherlock's bedroom, flipping through a container full of bits of odds and ends. Sherlock would write ideas on any bit of paper he could find, whether it was a napkin or theater tickets. While John had rarely seen Sherlock write in a notebook, Sherlock had dozens of them, in which he kept thorough records on the cases, with names, dates, his deductions and conclusions, all stored under his bed. Lestrade was sitting nearby, surrounded by stacks of the notebooks, reading through one. He looked over to John, and handed it over.

"This is the first case you worked on together, the suicides."

John took the book from Lestrade, looked down and read the words, written in Sherlock's elegant hand.

_Not as slow and dim-witted as most, certainly with my influence, could become above average in deduction, if he is willing to apply himself_

John smiled and laughed a bit. He handed it back to Lestrade, who gave John a cautious smile. John nodded as he reached over to the next notebook in the stack. It had summaries of a few of the smaller cases they worked on together, and then the Baskerville case. As John scanned the mostly clinical description, a few words near the end caught his eye.

_He makes me care, which breaks all my rules. And I find that he is worth it, to be compromised by feelings in order to make John happy. That is who I want to be for John, he makes me better. I wish I was braver, to tell him, so he would never doubt how important he is to me...and to the work._

John pressed his hand over his mouth and breathed in deeply, and if his heart was not already broken... Lestrade reached over and let his hand hover over John's shoulder, but thought that may not be appreciated. He mummered "I'll just take this stack out to the car" as he gathered up a few of the notebooks and left John alone.

* * *

John stood in the window as he watched Dimmock load the last of the records into the car boot. Lestrade stood in the sitting room doorway.

"We'll get these back to you as soon as we can, but it'll take a while"

John nodded without turning around

"Those notebooks are like an encyclopedia and instruction manual for detectives all rolled in one"

John hummed in agreement, as Dimmock came up the stairs and stood behind Lestrade.

"We may need to go over a few things with you John at some point, but for now I think we have what we need." Dimmock said "Thank you John"

John turned and nodded at Dimmock, who went back downstairs, and John turned back to look out the window.

Lestrade stood a bit straighter and decided this was the time to try to talk to John. They had worked together, although mostly silently, going through Sherlock's things and the case notebooks. And it only cemented what Lestrade already knew, that Sherlock was real. His doubt had been fleeting, but glaring in John's eyes. He wanted to set it right with John.

He breathed in to speak but took in the sight of John staring contemplatively out the window. His eyes were hard and reddened, with dark circles underneath. His body was wrapped tightly around himself, his arms crossed holding everything together. This man, this strong brave man was broken by this. He would not add to John's pain right now. Lestrade turned and walked down the stairs, and left.

He heard the front door close, and John released the breathe he had been holding, and let himself crumble to the floor, his back leaning against the sofa. He looked around the flat, just at a loss, of what to do, what to do now...

He took out his mobile and dialed... _You called me, so you know who I am..._

"We, um, we went through your case notes, the police, they needed them. It's like they just carted off your brain, in boxes... Why did this happen? Why would I be allowed to know you and be your friend, and care for you, and then start to feel so close to you, that you became a part of me. And with you gone, it feels like that part of me has been ripped out, without anesthetic. It physically hurts. And sometimes I forget to breathe. Something as simple as breathing. It's so hard to remember" John paused and the voicemail box beeped. He put his phone down on the floor and pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes. He had to get up and finish packing.

John pressed his hands into his thighs, and stood up. And began again, to pack his things away.

* * *

After the moving van was nearly filled, John came back upstairs for a final look around and to take the last box downstairs. He had texted Mycroft that he would be back to deal with the remainder of Sherlock's things, but John doubted he would return any time soon. Mrs. Hudson said they were paid up in rent for the next two months, so he had time. He reached for the last box, with the skull and the rest of Sherlock's things. And John suddenly remembered. He bounded up the stairs and walked to the other side of his bed. He pressed on a loose floor board with his heal and pulled it up. He took out his Browning. Not the most creative hiding place, but Sherlock had yet to find this one, after finding all the other spots.

John gripped his gun carefully, eyeing the safety, feeling the cold metal and the smooth texture. John looked at the gun and the blackness of it pulled him in. He pressed his eyes closed and snapped them open again. He released the clip and the bullet in the chamber, and slowly walked back down to the sitting room. He set the gun in the box and took the skull out. John slowly placed the clip and the single bullet on the mantel and carefully placed the skull on top of the ammunition.

"Hold on to that for me, will you?"

He took the box into his arms, and pulled the door closed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps another 3 chapters, and we'll get to the end. 
> 
> Thanks for reading....

_We, um, we went through your case notes, and the police, they needed them, so I suppose that's alright. It's like they just carted off your brain Sherlock, in boxes -_

Sherlock cut off the message John had left and dialed the phone.

_You've reached the voicemail box for Dr. John Watson..._

"That explains why I didn't find my case files when I broke into the flat last night. Since this is clearly your fault John, I'd ask you to help me break into New Scotland Yard tonight, but you aren't exactly available to me, are you?."

Sherlock crushed his finger to the screen of his phone and hung up. He stared at the library wall, which he has commandeered much to Mycroft's chagrin. A large map of the world covered the it, with slips of paper and pictures pinned on. Several different colored string connected the pins in places, and a plan was emerging, but Sherlock needed...

While most assumed correctly that Sherlock's power of recall and memory was substantial, he occasionally needed to supplement it with his case files. Now was one of those times. And he needed to talk this plan through, have a sounding board. He closed his arms around himself, resting his chin in his palm, and did what has become natural for him...

* * *

Mycroft eased his way in the front door, after a long day at work, with his briefcase and takeaway in hand. He slowly hung his coat in the closet, and made his way to the kitchen. Mycroft flipped the kettle on and then rummaged through the cabinets for plates and silverware. He missed his house staff. Since his brother's resurrection, he had placed his house staff on indefinite leave, only his most trusted agents guarded the house. He couldn't risk Sherlock, not again.

It has started. A brief struggle for power seemed to have occurred, tapped down by a drastic and deadly move by one of Moriarty's most dangerous men, Colonel Sebastian Moran. Intelligence had observed a few murders of key people in Moriarty's network, and then a massive attack. Moran had a ferry in the Mediterranean bombed, killing all 183 passengers aboard, just to target the three remaining rivals that he managed to lure aboard the fated ship. And then Moran sent the network back to business with a vengeance. His brother's crusade to take down the network just became one of Mycroft's top priorities.

After he slid the takeaway onto plates, and sorted the tea on the tray, he carried the meal towards the library. As he approached, he heard Sherlock's voice, sounding like he was deep in conversation. He quickened his pace, wondering who could it be...

Sherlock had rearranged the room, sliding one of the large armchairs to be stationed in front of the wall of knowledge, as Mycroft called it. He sat with a blank , far away expression and was rapidly speaking to no one, that Mycroft could see.

Mycroft slowly approached his brother, "I've brought you dinner Sherlock.." but was dismissed with a wave and Sherlock continued his conversation. Mycroft carefully placed the plate of food on the table next to his brother, and poured out a cup of tea. He made his way to the other armchair across the room and poured himself a cup. He slowly sipped his tea and listened to his brother.

"He's stretched a bit thin in Africa, but that's to be expected. From what we know of his operations in Turkey.."

Mycroft had seen his brother like this, years ago. When they were teenagers and still close, they would talk at great length about science and mathematics, and argue about politics. At times, Mycroft would leave and return a few hours later, to find that Sherlock had continued the conversation in his absence.

Mycroft began to eat his dinner, and glanced over his brother. Perhaps this was a continuation of their conversation from last night, regarding Moriarty. They had talked late into the night, and Sherlock was still wearing the same clothes from yesterday. His face was weary and tight, so apparently he had not slept.

Mycroft reached for the stack of surveillance reports that Anthea had left for him, and opened the top one. He flipped through the images, when something Sherlock said caught his attention.

"The fakes would have a similar look, so we'd have to devise a method of testing them quickly, in the field. Are the pills soluable? Mmm, I'll have to look that up in one of your medical journals John..."

So...not a continuation of last night's conversation, at least not a conversation with Mycroft. As he gazed at Sherlock, he wondered if he had done the right thing, giving him the doctor's messages. Sherlock's voice faded to silence, and as Mycroft watched, his brother's sleepy stare came to sharp focus on the cup of tea next to him.

Sherlock stared at the tea and his weary mind started to think...

_Tea...John always makes me tea._

_And there is Chinese food...John's brought me Chinese food._

_There's tea and Chinese food here, in front of me._

_Ergo, John is here._

Sherlock snapped his head around as he made a sharp intake of breath, and then called out

"John?"

His eyes quickly scanned the library until they settled on Mycroft, who stared back at him with an expression of - sadness? Pity?

"He's not here Sherlock..." Mycroft said in a near whisper

 _When did John leave?..._ Sherlock shook himself to a more wakeful state.

"Of course he's not here, I was just...tired" His face flushed as he looked away from his elder brother's gaze. He reached out for the tea, which had gone cold, and drank it down anyways.

Thankfully, Mycroft let it pass, and changed his expression to be inquisitive "Made any progress on the plan?"

"Yes, indeed" Sherlock responded, grateful for the change in subject. "I'll need a list of resources you have in France, Turkey, and Africa. I think it's best to hit the network in a few weak points first, and then make my way back to it's stronghold in England."

Mycroft typed off a quick text to Anthea, and then looked back up.

"I'll also need some equipment, here's my list " Sherlock stood and pulled a paper off the wall. He turned and held it out for Mycroft, seemingly beckoning him over.

He rose and came over to Sherlock, taking the list in hand. As he perused it, Sherlock quietly crossed the room and picked up the chair his brother had just been sitting in, and carefully placed it by his own, near the wall.

Mycroft looked at it and slowly sat down, "Thank you" he said without looking up. Sherlock hummed in response.

"Have you considered the list of operatives that I recommended, to accompany you?" as he folded the equipment list in thirds and placed it in the inner pocket of his suit jacket.

"None of them are suitable for my needs Mycroft. Is that really all you have?"

"In what way are they not suitable? These are some of my best men..."

"I need someone that will challenge me...my thinking. Push me to the correct conclusion. These..." as he gestured disrespectfully to the stack of dossiers on the floor " are all followers, they will obey orders certainly, but I don't need that. And none of them even have basic first aid knowledge..." Sherlock grumbled.

"They could certainly be trained quickly enough" Mycroft responded, "But I don't believe that is what you are finding at fault"

Sherlock raised his brow in a questioning look.

"None will be Dr. John Watson."

"Indeed. And why not Mycroft?"

"Why not what? Sherlock?"

Sherlock leaned back into his chair, and breathed in.

"Why not John? He's proven himself more than capable in dangerous situations, he's a crack shot, former army captain, and a doctor. He certainly shown the ability to facilitate my thought processes. And he's able to deal with my personality."

"And how would we explain his absence?" Mycroft asked incredulously.

"Any way you see fit. Fake an accident, or call him back to military service. Make a plausible explanation and John can join me" Sherlock stated. It's simple.

"Sherlock" Mycroft started carefully "John is not capable of deception, lying, bluffing his way through or able to disguise himself as you can. He has no special training in covert operations. He would be discovered in an instant. The two of you together would draw suspicion. And when Moran caught on to you, he will threaten Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson, as well as John's family to draw you out."

"Well, then Lestrade can come with us. He can't be happy being under suspension, and they'll probably demote him, or worse. And you can protect Mrs. Hudson and John's family" Sherlock was pleading, staring at his brother.

Mycroft looked away from Sherlock's gaze, and he felt the shame come flooding back.

"I couldn't...I couldn't even protect my own brother from harm." Mycroft said, his voice cracking a bit. "I couldn't stop this from happening Sherlock, you being driven to ground and forced into a corner by Moriarty"

Sherlock forced a breathe out as he stood, agitated.

"I can't do this without John! I can't even make a plan without him, I just keep assuming he'll be there to provide...whatever I need. His absence is...distracting. I need him." He turned to stand in profile to his brother, looking at him out of the corner of his eye. His face pleaded with Mycroft to fix it, fix everything.

Mycroft stood, straightened his waistcoat, and took a small step forward to stand in front of his brother. Sherlock shifted his gaze to the floor, dropping his head down so Mycroft ended up talking to a mop of curly dark hair.

"You chose to do this alone, to protect them all. If John were to come with you, they would all be in danger once again. If John were by your side, he would face the same danger as you. And while I am certain the doctor would gladly risk his life for you, can you honestly say you would risk his life?"

Sherlock hesitated a moment. The work will be dangerous, dismantling the vast criminal network. The thought of being without John was painful, but imagining him injured or killed...was overwhelming.

When Sherlock had stood on the building's edge of St. Bart's, staring down at John, he had to gather the courage to jump. Even though he knew it was all a trick, he still had to hurl himself off of a building. The thought of keeping John alive was all the motivation he needed in order to take the leap.

Sherlock slowly shook his head. He cleared his throat and looked up at Mycroft with glassy eyes, and then glanced at the stack of agent dossiers. "I'll take Stephanson"

Mycroft nodded his head, and placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, giving him a gentle squeeze, before he made his way towards the door.

"I'll start the preparations and gather the equipment you've requested" he turned back to look at Sherlock, who gave him a slow wave but otherwise did not move, staring off into nothing. Mycroft left him to his thoughts.

Sherlock slowly sat down in his chair and took out his mobile. He replayed John's message he had stopped before hearing the end.

_We, um, we went through your case notes, and the police, they needed them, so I suppose that's alright. It's like they just carted off your brain Sherlock, in boxes. Why did this happen? Why would I be allowed to know you and be your friend, and care for you, and then start to feel so close to you, that you became a part of me. And with you gone, it feels like that part of me has been ripped out, without anestetic. It physically hurts. And sometimes I forget to breathe. Something as simple as breathing. It's so hard to remember_

Sherlock hung up the phone and rubbed his hands over his face before dialing.

_You've reached the voicemail box for Dr. John Watson..._

"I wasn't as clever as I thought. That's why this has happened. I put you in danger - you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. And I'm going to fix this. I wish...I wish I could bring you with me. But I understand now, I could not bear to put you in harm's way again. You are a conductor of light John, and your words have illuminated my thoughts about many things. I feel the pain John, like you. I hope that in the end, this will all be worth it."


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been traveling on a train all day, I hope this makes sense...
> 
> Thanks for reading....

The road noise of the car pulsed through Sherlock's body, the swaying lulled his muscles to relax, but his mind was racing. As he stared out to the passing scene, London blurring by, Sherlock wondered when he would see his home again. Feeling a slight trepidation about the coming game, the highest stakes he's ever played for; his life, his friends and family, and the hope for a future he had never imagined possible. Since it was clear he could no longer rid himself of these feelings and sentiment, he had to find a way to turn that weakness into a strength.

His phone vibrated in his jacket pocket. Sherlock turned to look at his brother sitting in the seat next to him. He wanted to answer it, his eyes pleaded with Mycroft. He pulled it out of his pocket to stare at the screen...

_John_

And then the vibrating stopped. Sherlock wondered if John would leave a voicemail or if this was one of those times that John just called to hear Sherlock's voice and then would hang up.

The phone dinged, new voicemail...

Sherlock pressed play.

_Mrs. Hudson and I are going to visit you today. I'm sorry I haven't been by since the funeral. Sherlock...I need to see you, to say goodbye. You are...were my best friend...and there's something I want you to know. I always assumed I had more time to tell you. Those long looks I would give you, that was me deciding if it was the right time, but then I would say to myself - tomorrow, I will tell him tomorrow. Today is tomorrow, and you're gone._

_I think...I know that at some point, I fell in love with you. For so long I questioned if that would ever happen for me. I wondered if I would even recognize it if I did. And I didn't...not right away. Because you were you, and we were friends and you were not who I imagined I would fall in love with. I've never had regrets. Until now, I lived my life and never let my dreams sit on the shelf. I wanted to be a doctor, I did. I wanted to serve my country, I did. No fear and no regret; no hesitation, until something as important as love, as you came along, and I hesitated. And so now I have to live with this regret. I have to find a way to live with it and without you. Goodbye Sherlock._

As John's message ended, Sherlock closed his eyes and reached out to the leather paneling on the car door, and felt texture, the stitching under his finger, trying to ground himself before he spoke.

His voice was cracked and rough with hurt, as he said, "Mycroft...I need...I need..."

Mycroft watched his brother, and wished he could drain the pain away from his brother's body and absorb it into his own. He wished he could share the burden.

"Mycroft, I need to make a stop."

* * *

_This is real. This is my reality, Sherlock is dead and buried beneath my feet_

John stared at the gold lettering of Sherlock's headstone. This was meant to be goodbye, but John could not help but plead to grave, for one more miracle

_Don't be dead..._

John stood at attention, turned and walked away. Mrs. Hudson discreetly gave him time alone with Sherlock. He walked towards her, not knowing that in the woods to his left, Sherlock stood watching the whole scene and listening to John's words through a small microphone Mycroft placed just before Mrs. Hudson and John arrived at the cemetary.

As John and Mrs Hudson disappeared behind the church, Sherlock turned on his heel and strode to the waiting car. He took John's words on as a challenge. To perform one more miracle...

* * *

In a hangar at the airport, Mycroft finished giving instructions to the small group of men and women, before they boarded the private plane. Sherlock was the tip of the spear in this, but it would take a small army to help him complete the mission. Mycroft would provide all that was needed, anywhere, at any time. With the support of the British government, and MI6, Colonel Moran and Moriarty's criminal network would fall.

Sherlock stalked over to his elder brother, with anger on his face. He had become increasingly impatient and difficult the past few hours, as they completed the final briefings with the team. Sherlock had clearly come to his boiling point. Mycroft squared his shoulders and awaited the next verbal attack.

"What was the point of all that useless information? I think you just like to hear the sound of you voice, which is grating by the way. And 2 weeks of training? Do you think me completely inept? I am not unfamiliar with weaponry and fighting techniques - certainly more proficient than you!" Sherlock shouted in Mycroft's face, as he crowded into Mycroft's personal space. Within the next second, Sherlock found himself slammed down onto the nearby table, his arm painfully twisted behind his back by Mycroft, who hissed into Sherlock's ear.

"If matching my proficiency were the requirement, you would be in training for a very long time dear brother."

Sherlock pulled in air to replace what had been forced out by the impact. He was mildly impressed with his brother's strength and speed. He wiped the expression of shock off of his face, as he said "Release me"

Mycroft carefully released his hold and they took a couple of steps away from each other. The brothers eyed each other as they got themselves straightened out.

"My apologies. I thought a demonstration of your need for training may be more illustrative then any verbal argument I could make." Mycroft gave his brother a half smile.

"Indeed" and returned his brother smile with a smirk. Perhaps working with his elder brother will prove interesting after all. Sherlock rubbed his wrist where Mycroft had gripped. He took a few steps over to the long table of supplies, and grabbed his duffel bag and coat, strode back over and stood in front of his brother.

He gave him a long look, searching his face. Mycroft looked exhausted. He'd worked tirelessly these past few days to get everything ready and assets in place. Sherlock was sure Mycroft spent significant political capital to get support from the government for this operation.

"Mycroft" Sherlock said as he extended out his hand.

Mycroft reached out and shook his younger brother's hand. "Good luck, dear brother"

"Same to you, brother"

Sherlock turned and boarded the plane.

Mycroft watched all the men and women board the plane as well. He had carefully selected them, to ensure success and the safe return of his baby brother. He stood and listened to the plane engage the engines, the whine of the jets as the plane rolled forward and out of the hanger into the darkness of the night.

Mycroft strode to the car as Anthea stepped in line behind him. He pulled out his mobile as he slid inside of his car. Scrolling through his contacts, he stopped at Dr. John Watson.

He thought to call, even though it was past midnight, Mycroft knew that the doctor would be awake. However, John was still ignoring his calls and it was doubtful he was even listening to any of the voicemail messages he had left. Text would have to do. He didn't want his brother to lose an important life line to home.

_Dr. Watson, I understand you have been calling Sherlock's phone leaving messages. Rest assured - I have not nor will I ever I listen to them. His phone shall answer your calls as long as you need. Please take into consideration my sincere apologies, perhaps when next I call, you could answer. I would certainly welcome contact from you._

* * *

John sat in the pub that he and Mrs. Hudson had stopped for dinner. He had long put her into a taxi home to Baker St. He told himself that this was going to be it, his last day to wallow in grief. After a night of drowning his sorrows in the bottom of a mug of brew, he would just have to pick himself up and move on with it. He had a plan.

He'd taken the money Sherlock had in the joint account, and sent his sister to the best rehab he could find, 180 day program in Scotland. Worked out well for the both of them, he would have her place to himself for a while as he got back on his feet and maybe this time, sobriety would stick for his sister, which would be a great weight off his shoulders. He'd left his job at the surgery, he wanted a fresh start. He had quite a bit of money left, so he could take his time.

He drained his glass, wondering how many that had been. He'd lost count at this point, when his phone pinged, telling him he had a new text message, which he quickly read.

Mycroft, bloody Mycroft Holmes. Fucking Mycroft Holmes. Arrogant piece of shite granting permission, to leave voicemail messages.

John quickly pecked out an eloquent reply.

_FUCK OFF!_

He turned around in his stool at the bar and dialed his mobile.

_You called me, so you know who I am..._

"I told your brother to fuck off," John shouted into the phone. "To fuck off, the arrogant sod-"

The bartender leaned over the bar and grabbed John's shoulder. "Hey buddy, keep it down and watch your language!"

"Shut up you tosser, I'm talking to my dead friend here. So piss off!". John shouted back.

"Either shut it or I'll toss you out!".

John raised his posture up and tried to stand as steady as his drunken state would allow.

"I'd like to see you try."

* * *

Lestrade peered through the bars at his friend. He'd gotten a 2am call from a patrolman he knew, said they just picked up Dr. John Watson for drunken disorderly, wondered if he wanted to help a friend out. So here he was.

"Twice in as many months..." Lestrade heard behind him, as he saw Mycroft Holmes stride towards him. He had trouble hiding his concern over Mycroft's appearance, the deep lines of sleep deprivation eroded his face and his usual immaculate attire looked like he'd been living in the same clothes for days.

Mycroft watched Lestrade's inquisitive gaze, and asked "Do I look that bad?"

Lestrade snapped his eyes from Mycroft's clothes to meet the man's eyes.

"I don't believe I have see you looking so...human before. You look completely done in," the detective said with concern.

Mycroft brushed him off with a wave, and nodded towards the doctor.

Lestrade responded "He mouthed off to a bartender, and then he got into a fight with the guy when he refused to leave."

"I thought I told you to fuck off Mycroft," John groaned and rolled over to look at the two men, staring down at him.

"Good to see you too John."

"Just go away..."John moaned in pain. Not just from the few hits to the head he took from the bartender, but pain from everything.

"I'm afraid I can't do that John. I am obligated to see you through this," Mycroft said determinedly.

"Obligated, just how are you obligated in any way to me?" John said as he rolled to his back and stared at the ceiling.

"You are all I have left of Sherlock, and certainly the most important person he had in his life. I don't believe he would like to see you suffer like this." Mycroft said carefully.

"The most important thing to Sherlock was the work, not people," John muttered to the ceiling.

"You are mistaken, more than you can possibly know."

John slowed turned his head to look at Mycroft and Lestrade, then rolled over to place his feet on the floor.

"I started a fight and got arrested. I certainly deserve whatever I have coming to me. This has nothing to do with you"

"No" Mycroft said shortly. Lestrade turned to gaze at Mycroft as did John

"No? What do you mean no?" John asked quickly.

"Did you bother to read any of the papers I sent over regarding Sherlock's estate?" Mycroft asked

"Not exactly...why?"

"The money Sherlock left, there were some specific requirements attached."

"Such as?"

"Provisions against behavior like this. Excessive drinking...right now, you're on the road to becoming an alcoholic John. Seems Sherlock anticipated this type of...response from you and provided for it."

"Sherlock..." John hissed under his breath at the floor. Lestrade just grinned.

"I am not an alcoholic. I just got a little out of hand tonight that's all."

"I would not have trouble persuading a judge to see it my way John."

"Then take the money Mycroft, I don't need it!"

"And what of Harry? The rehab she's in now, quite expensive but very effective. I should know, since that's where I sent Sherlock," Mycroft said smugly.

John huffed in defeat. He hadn't read any of those papers, Just went to the bank and had the money transferred over. Knowing Sherlock, he would have made it ironclad, from a legal perspective.

"What must I do" as he looked up at Mycroft, who turned to look at Lestrade.

"He's, um, free to go any time. I talked to the bartender, he didn't want to press charges. Thought you were a bit of a loon talking to your dead friend on the phone." Lestrade said with a small, careful laugh. Mycroft made a questioning face and John gave out a little chuckle.

"Right, I suppose that I may have sounded like a bit of a nutter" John laughed.

Lestrade hummed in response as he opened the door. John stood up and walked out, and stood in front of Lestrade. "Thanks"

"I know of a wonderful cafe open all night, shall we discuss over a cup of tea?" Mycroft asked.

John nodded, Mycroft turned to Lestrade, "If you wouldn't mind joining us"

"Lead the way" Lestrade said as he gestured out the door.

Mycroft walked towards the exit as his mobile pinged with a new text.

_Just landed and got an interesting, drunken message from John. I thought you were watching over him Mycroft!_

_I am handling him right now_ , Mycroft quickly responded, sliding the phone back into his pocket.

* * *

"So, we are all in agreement?" Mycroft asked, looking at John and Lestrade, before taking a sip of his tea.

Lestrade nodded enthusiastically, "Yes, of course, anything to help clear Sherlock's name."

"John?"

"The work, yes, that sounds...perfect actually. But I don't need you both babysitting me".

"Until I am certain you can be responsible John, it is required. You can either spend some social time with Lestrade and I or I will assign someone to physically follow you around 24/7".

John just nodded. Mycroft was a controlling git, Sherlock was right. The way Mycroft expressed his concern was forceful and overwhelming, but John had little choice. He needed to help Harry, and if he thought about it, he was not doing well dealing with Sherlock's death on his own.

"Good. Report to my office on Monday. I'll make the necessary arrangements for your transfer Lestrade," Mycroft said as he gazed over both men and stood; Lestrade nodded and stood as well.

"I still..." John started to say, and looked up at Lestrade and Mycroft. "This doesn't mean I have forgiven either one of you."

"Understandable, but if you don't mind, I will continue to attempt to earn your forgiveness...and your trust." Mycroft said softly.

"Yeah, me too John" Lestrade said quietly.

John stood, and put out his hand. He shook Mycroft's and then Lestrade's with a firm, determined handshake. "Right, then...very well. I will see you on Monday."

They watched the doctor walk away, Lestrade said "Well played Mycroft."

"Thank you Detective Inspector"

"Greg...you can call me Greg" as he turned to look at Mycroft and reached out his own hand Mycroft gripped it in a handshake.

"Very well, Greg."

Greg released his grip, and walked away. "See you Monday"

* * *

_You've reached the voicemail box for Dr. John Watson..._

"We'll have to grapple a bit when I return John, I do believe I've learned a new trick or two. And a trip to the firing range."

"John, I want you to search for information on Raj Nolumbar. This man Stephanson that Mycroft assigned to me is an idiot and useless when it comes to research."

_You called me, so you know who I am..._

"Merry Christmas Sherlock..."

_You've reached the voicemail box for Dr. John Watson..._

"Merry Christmas John"

"Happy new year. I wish...I miss you John"

_You called me, so you know who I am..._

"Happy belated new year and Happy Birthday Sherlock. Or remembrance of the day you escaped from the uterus...if you prefer."

"I..I thought I saw you, by Kensington park. I caught a glimpse of a tall man in a long black coat. Wasn't you, of course. Not the first time my mind has played that trick on me. I've been a bit low, lately. But thankfully, your brother had excellent timing, gave me a new job, right up my alley. He's been a good friend, he and Greg both, been watching over me. Good night Sherlock"

_You've reached the voicemail box for Dr. John Watson..._

"I know what you mean. I thought I heard your voice today, in a cafe. I thought perhaps you'd taken a holiday in Paris, and by chance chosen the same cafe I frequent. But, it was not you. I'll be sad to leave Paris, but our work here is done, and time to move on. We...we should take a holiday here sometime, when I get back."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, Back on the train - so, again, I hope this makes sense. Work has been crazy...but I think we're almost done. 2-3 chapter should get us there.
> 
> Thanks for reading....

_What work do you have John doing brother? - SH_

_Forensics, medical reports, working on evidence from cases - MH_

_Cases from? - SH_

_Evidence sent in from the field. - MH_

_My evidence? John has been working on my evidence? - SH_

_Sherlock, he needed direction, purpose. I told him that this would help clear your name. - MH_

_I see - SH_

_Thank you Mycroft, for helping John - SH_

_You're welcome dear brother - MH_

* * *

_You've reached the voicemail box for Dr. John Watson..._

"Incompetent, really. Worse then the Yarders. I'd give anything to have Lestrade back right now. Stephanson had to walk me out of the station before I got too angry. He's learning how to deal with me, slowly. Nothing like you of course, but he's one of Mycroft's men, so I expect very little intelligence wise."

"Of all the pointless topics you discussed with me, I do wish we would have discussed this. Why does it feel like a part of me drained away when I pulled that trigger? And I feel...I feel everything. My emotions...this is your fault John! I did not...care until you came along. Told me caring mattered. Made me care about you. I can't stop these feelings! They are burning through me. And even though he would have killed me...I can't stop seeing his eyes going flat as he died. Is it always this way the first time? I need to numb this..."

"What I wouldn't give for a decent cup of tea right now. And one of Mrs. Hudson's biscuits. The Turkish make wonderful coffee, but their tea, not my favorite. John, I want you to know, I didn't do anything. I wanted to. I found some, but I didn't buy any. I did get drunk though, Stephanson got a kick out of that."

* * *

_Report - MH_

_Sherlock, report in. I have not heard from you or agent Stephanson, and I am getting no GPS signal from your satellite phones. Please call in - MH_

* * *

_You've reached the voicemail box for Dr. John Watson..._

"You were right. At that moment when I thought I was dying, all I could think was...please let me live."

"Thankfully I have recovered. Although, my ears are still ringing from the explosion. If I had to spend another day in the hospital, I would have died of boredom. Stephanson is no where near as entertaining as you are. I have quite a few new, interesting looking scars now. I hope the damage to my hand is not permanent, I would certainly like to continue to play the violin."

* * *

_You called me, so you know who I am..._

"How does the damn radio know that I miss you? It's like it's reading my mind and only playing depressing songs. Sometimes I imagine you're only away on a case or on vacation. Does that make me crazy?"

* * *

_You've reached the voicemail box for Dr. John Watson..._

"I hate this disguise, I really do. I am wearing a jumper - a jumper John! I'm suppose to be a dull American tourist, and stupid. I've been channeling thoughts of Anderson and Donovan."

"You'd be proud of my suturing skills...I told Stephanson that a doctor I know taught me and he says to tell you thanks."

"I feel very Lawrence of Arabia in this Moroccan dish-dash. As tedious as they were, movie night with you sounds perfect right now."

* * *

_You called me, so you know who I am..._

"I think I have become Mycroft's substitute little brother. He's insisted on dinner each week with me and Greg. And he constantly checks up on me at work. He misses you...you would be surprised. Greg's been reinstated, I'm sure your brother helped. We had dinner at Angelo's. I hadn't been back since...you've been gone. Christ, why do you have to be dead. I can't..."

* * *

_You've reached the voicemail box for Dr. John Watson..._

"Stephanson was killed. The agent assigned to me. He turned out to be good, capable - quiet. He died because I made a judgement call, the right one, sacrificing him to the chase instead of going back for him. And he told me to go on. Just as you would have. But if it had been you, I would have gone back, and I wouldn't have caught the man. So that's good, I suppose."

* * *

_Where are you? You've turned off you satellite phone and missed the last rendezvous with your new partner. I know you check for messages on this phone, so I know you will get this. Call me - please - it's been 10 days - MH_

_I work better alone. I've turned my satellite phone back on. I will call you soon - SH_

* * *

_You've reached the voicemail box for Dr. John Watson..._

"Merry Christmas John"

"Happy New Year."

* * *

_You called me, so you know who I am..._

"Happy Birthday Sherlock. Wish you were here. I really need to talk to you right now"

"She loves me like this, can you believe that? I hate who I have become without you. I've become this dull, boring, nothing of a man. She never knew me before this, barely even heard of you. So, she never knew what I was like before. You made me the person I want to be. And she keeps me like this. I have started to hate her for it. Even though she's done nothing but care for me and love me, I have started resenting her for not fixing me, like you did. And she said yes, can you believe that? I half hoped she would say no and leave me. If only you were here, at least you would have talked me out of proposing."

* * *

_You've reached the voicemail box for Dr. John Watson..._

"Congratulations on your engagement, John"

* * *

_Mycroft, please - SH_

_You're nearly finished. I know it's been a hard, but it's almost done. Greg and I will talk to John, about Mary - MH_

* * *

_You called me, so you know who I am..._

"I'm sorry I forgot your birthday. Happy Birthday Sherlock. To make up for it, I'll visit. It's been a long time since I've seen you."

* * *

_Moran is back in London. See you soon brother - SH_

* * *

_You've reached the voicemail box for Dr. John Watson..._

"I'm coming home John"


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Randomly long chapter. I suppose I should have broken it up in two. Oh well...
> 
> Thanks for reading...

_Baker Street. Come at once if convenient._

John caught his breathe when he saw the text message on his phone. He had a late night and thought perhaps he was imagining...he pressed his palms into the kitchen counter as he stared, his mobile buzzed again.

_If inconvenient, come anyway_

The name across the phone...Holmes...Mycroft Holmes..

_Mycroft? - JW_

_Could be dangerous._

_Mycroft, what are you playing at? - JW_

John glanced over to Mary as she stood in the kitchen, washing the dishes from breakfast, and then looked down to his phone. No response. He texted again.

_It's morning on my wedding day. Couldn't be more inconvenient - JW_

_Mycroft? - JW_

John looked back over at Mary. She hovered over the sink, wrapped up in one of his old dressing gowns. She hummed to herself and as she reached over to the counter for another dish, John could see the sweet smile she had on her face.

She was so...good. Nearly perfect, really. Lovely, intelligent, considerate, sensitive to what ever John needed. He felt cared for and loved. But she didn't need John...for anything. She was strong and independent. She felt proud that she rescued him from a lonely existence. She tolerated the work John did with Mycroft. She viewed it more like a hobby, working on evidence, obsessed with clearing Sherlock's name.

At times, he felt like he was living someone else's life. It was the life he had once imagined for himself, before he met Sherlock. Nice home, with a beautiful wife, and children somewhere out on the horizon. It just seemed so flat, like all the color in his life has been drained away. The days were so smooth now, no edge to them.

His life with Sherlock had become what he wanted, even though he didn't know it at the time. This life with Mary was a poor substitute. But this was his life now, and all in all, it was fine. He glanced back down to his mobile.

_Could be dangerous_

"Mary...I've got to step out for a bit."

She looked over her shoulder, dried her hands, crossed over to John, and wrapped her arms around his waist.

"Not going to leave me at the alter are you?" She said playfully as she smiled at him.

John placed his hands on either side of her face and gave her a gentle kiss.

"Mycroft needs something," he said.

She gave him a questioning look.

"I don't know, but he must be serious if he's texted me today."

"Mmmmmmmm. Give him grief for missing your bachelor party last night," she said as she crossed back over to the sink. "Make sure you both are at the church by 2. Otherwise I'll run off with your best man," she said jokingly.

"I always knew you fancied Greg." John said as his slid his mobile into his pocket "Be back in a bit."

* * *

As his cab turned the corner onto Baker St., his mind pushed forward so many of his favorite memories. Walking home after cases, rushing out the door to track down the latest lead, standing on the pavement gazing up at the window, seeing Sherlock there. He handed over a few notes to the cabbie as they came to a stop.

John glanced up and down at the street and then his eyes rested on the wooden door with the brass numbers.

He knocked. No answer. He knocked again a bit louder. Nothing. He placed his hand on to the knob and turned. It was unlocked. He stepped in and called out "Mrs. Hudson? Mycroft?" and received silence in response.

John climbed the stairs to his old flat, approached the door which was cracked open. He slid his hand across the wood as he pushed.

Mycroft sat in Sherlock's chair, and gave a smirk in response to John's stunned look. As Mycroft raised his tea cup to take a sip, John shook his head to snap himself out of the state of disbelief that had settled over him.

"Mycroft...What's going on? It's like a bloody museum here. I thought...I thought we gave all these things away."

"Perhaps I suffer from sentiment a bit more than I let on."

With the exception of John's things, everything was the same. Exactly the same. The antlers with headphones on, the knife stabbed into the hearth, the books and papers...John glanced into the kitchen and there was the tea kettle that Sherlock had put a sizable dent into and all the crockery John had left behind. He turned his attention back to the skull, which was still holding down the ammunition clip from his Browning.

"Sit down John, your tea is getting cold" as Mycroft gestured to John's old chair, with a steaming cup sitting on the table nearby.

John sank down into the chair, and stared over to Mycroft.

"Mycroft, why are we here?"

"Does it trouble you, to be here?"

"Well, I didn't think it would...but then I didn't realize you'd turned the flat into some creepy tribute to the dead." John said flatly.

Mycroft hummed in response.

"Where were you last night? Even Greg thought you were coming"

"I was...unavoidably detained, my apologies"

John gave Mycroft a curious smile, the man was always so mysterious.

"I did receive your voicemail last night, although I believe it was meant for someone else with the last name of Holmes"

John slowly closed his eyes. Damn, he had been quite drunk last night, and he ended up...what an unfortunate slip of the finger...

"I'm sorry, Mycroft, you're right, th-that was not intended for you." John stammered.

"Still, I got the message loud and clear John. You are much more hesitant about your nuptials than you had led Gregory and I to believe."

"And that's why I am here? A drunken message about getting cold feet?"

"That and your declaration of want...need for someone else to be at the end of the isle, to take your hand in marriage."

"Well...that can never happen. No matter how much I wish it true." John said flatly.

"What if it could be?"

"Could be what, Mycroft?" John asked, his face creased with curiosity.

"There's something I have been keeping from you John, I'm afraid a rather large secret. I had not intended to tell you, today of all days, on your wedding day. We had thought it was best kept until after you returned from your honeymoon. But it seems, a critical decision must be made, if your dedication to wed Mary is in question."

"What are you driving at Mycroft? Questioning if I love Mary?"

"Yes"

"She loves me. I...love her, it may not be storybook, but we can't all have that can we," John replied with a little bit of edge in his voice.

"For you, perhaps you can," Mycroft stood "I will take my leave now-"

"But you've not told me - "

"Allow me to finish" as he reaches into his suit jacket for an CD. "I want you to listen to something I've put together, sort of a compilation."

"A mix tape? Really Mycroft?" John said sarcastically.

"More like...messages in a bottle". He walked over to the sound system on the bookshelf, inserted the disc, and it began to play.

It was John's first voicemail message to Sherlock, from the interrogation room at Scotland Yard. The anguish in John's voice pierced through the flat.

_"Sherlock! I don't understand! Why, why did you do that!..."_

John reached out and clutched Mycroft arm as he walked past.

"Tell me what's this about Mycroft." John said forcefully, his face pressed in anger and confusion.

"Listen to it John. Please. I will be just outside". Mycroft pulled away from John's grasp, and moved towards the door just as John's recorded voice faded away and was replaced with the deep sound of Mycroft's.

"I am sorry to say John, that I have listened to all the messages you left for Sherlock these past few years." John quickly spun his head to Mycroft as he made his way down the stairs. He gave John a tight smile, and kept going.

"I know promised I wouldn't, but after your message last night, I had to be sure. What you should know is that the intended recipient of the messages has heard them as well. Sherlock is alive John." John slowly turned his head towards the bookcase, his body swayed with the shock of the words he had just heard.

"You heard me correctly. He has spent these years hunting down Moriarty's network, using the cloak of death as a shield to protect him and all of us. He's left you messages as well. He wanted to wait till after your wedding, but I felt you would want to know now."

John slowly sat down into his chair, and sank into the cushion, his face turned from shock to being flushed with anger.

"I know you are stunned and perhaps angry -" Mycroft's voice continued

"Damn right I'm angry!" John shouted out over Mycroft's recorded words as he thought to himself...

_Sherlock, how could you do this to me..._

"- but I think you should hear this. Leave the flat whenever you wish, I will gladly spirit your back to your waiting bride. If you want to see him, listen first and I will bring him to you."

"Fuck you Mycroft!" John shouted out as he stood up like a shot and he made his way to the door. He was not going stay and play any of the games the Holmes brothers had in store for him. If they didn't have the guts to talk to him in person...he made his way to the top of the stairs just as a familiar voice filled his ears. Sherlock's first voicemail message to John...

_"John, it's me, um, Sherlock. If you're hearing this, then this whole ordeal must be over with and ended with either my death or success..."_

John stopped, and turned...

_"Well, I suppose both could be possible. I do plan on being alive at the end of this, but sometimes things don't go the way I plan, so perhaps it's best if I tell you now.."_

John slowly walked towards the sitting room and stood in the doorway.

_"John, I am truly sorry putting you through this, to have deceived you. There's nothing I wouldn't do to protect you, even kill myself, which it turns out was what I had to do. I miss you John,"_

John made his way back to his chair and sat down.

_"I'll talk to you later John, Good Night"_

John leaned back in his chair, reached for his cup of tea and took a sip as his own voice came out of the speakers.

_"London, I said to bury you in London. I hope that's alright..."_

* * *

The train emerged from the Chunnel, and sunlight burst through the windows into the room.

England...Sherlock nearly gasped at the sight of it. All the pieces, the things he had longed for were slowly getting put back in their rightful place. It started when he sat down in his seat, a lovely steward came to the door of his room and she asked in a soft English accent if he would like a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits. Indeed he would. He savored the flavor, not quite John's tea or Mrs. Hudson's biscuits, but he was getting closer and closer to it.

He gazed across the landscape as he pulled out his mobile. He searched for new voicemail messages. There were none. It had been quite a while. Not since around Sherlock's birthday had John called. The messages were fewer and far between. Well, that was ...understandable. Sherlock could not expect the messages to continue, as John moved on with his life. Onto marriage and children. All without Sherlock. He could only hope that John will forgive him, and grant him some small space in his life when he returned.

He thought back to Mycroft's words, that the messages Sherlock left for John could serve as an explanation, a way to tell John everything.

Sherlock dialed the phone,

_You've reached the voicemail box for Dr. John Watson..._

"The game is on. The last link in the chain is now in England. Once he's been removed, the network will just be broken strands, remenents of a dead spider's web. And there will be nothing for us to fear. Someday, you will hear this and all the other messages I've left for you. I know I've said things...you've said things that we may have never said to each other in person. As I drew closer to my return, you started to move on with your life. Understandably. I want you to know that it's...it's all fine. We don't have to be...what we were to each other. I have grown to appreciate the concept of, if you...care for someone, all you want for them is happiness, even if it is without...well, I want you to be happy John. While I long to see you as soon as I set foot in London, your wedding is tomorrow. I don't want to be a distraction. So, I will see you when you return from your honeymoon. And hopefully, by then I will have caught my prey. My best wishes John, and I hope...I hope you will be able to forgive me."

Sherlock set his mobile aside and reached for his laptop. He checked for emails from his brother, for the latest intelligence on Colonel Sebastian Moran. He digested the information, and it gave every indication that the man intended to stay in London indefinitely. It seemed he had fled initially after Moriarty's suicide to make himself look weak, draw his enemies in so he could eliminate them. Just as Moran worked to gain power and keep control, Sherlock had been there at every turn to destroy the outlying parts of the network.

His actions initially blended well with the ongoing power struggle, but as Sherlock continued, his actions caught Moran's attention. While Moran was no where near as intelligent as Moriarty, he was no fool. Sherlock was not certain if he had come away from this undetected. It seemed that Moran was returning to England to regroup but it could also just be a trap.

* * *

Sherlock stood in the taxi line at the train station, he pulled his ball cap down over his eyes, and zipped up the nylon jacket he had on. He wore denims and trainers, his hair cut very short, and every accessory screamed tourist. A camera dangling from his neck, a backpack slung over his shoulder, and a London A-Z book in his hand.

He took a taxi to the corner near Buckingham Palace, and snapped some photos as he waited. He wandered over to the front gate, stared at the building and remembered John's laugh as he had asked..

_"Seriously, Sherlock, what are we doing here? Here to see the Queen?"_

Sherlock smiled to himself.

"Not my favorite memory brother..."

Sherlock turned to see a taxi idling behind him, with Mycroft in the back seat, leaning out the window.

"Certainly one of my favorites..." Sherlock said as he smiled broadly, walking over to the taxi. The driver popped open the boot, and Sherlock tossed his bags in. Mycroft swung the door open and his brother slid in.

"Sherlock, it's good to see you." Mycroft said reservedly as he could.

"Yes, it's been a long time brother. You're looking...well" as Sherlock appraised his brother. There seemed to be a great sense of relief emanating from Mycroft and several other subtle changes.

Mycroft smiled cautiously, "Indeed. You're looking..." Mycroft took in Sherlock's tourist outfit.

"You look absolutely dreadful." Mycroft said with a laugh.

Sherlock gave a deep laugh in return. "It's good to be home."

* * *

Sherlock stepped to the wardrobe in the bedroom at Mycroft's house. He opened the door to find his suits hanging. He ran the tip of his forefinger down the sleeve of his favorite black suit jacket and then pulled it out. He laid it on the bed and turned towards the bath. He peeled away the tourist personae he had worn on and off for the past few years and stepped into the shower. He let the hot water roll down his body before he started to scrub his skin. This soap..was his favorite. And the shampoo, pure heaven in his hair, and the smell, he finally would smell like himself again. He stepped out, dried himself off and walked back into the bedroom.

As he dressed, he savored the feel of the fine material against his skin. He buttoned his shirt, and slid on his jacket. He strode out the room and downstairs to the library.

He found Mycroft there, with a fresh cup of tea. And a plate of biscuits, that looked very familiar. Sherlock stared into his brother's eyes, questioning...

"When I asked her to make some, she didn't even hesitate. I may have tried to look somewhat downtrodden," Mycroft said with a smirk.

Sherlock grabbed a biscuit up, took a bite, and hummed with satisfaction at the taste. _Mrs. Hudson..._

He gave his brother a grateful nod, and turned towards the wall of knowledge. Mycroft had added to it over these past few years, the center of the wall now singularly focused on London and Moran.

"This is the latest information" Mycroft said as he gestured to the stack of reports on the small table next to the chair. "Surveillance from 20 minutes ago is on your laptop"

"Has he been spotted?" Sherlock said as he squared his shoulders, reading the information on the wall.

"Not yet, he's being very cautious. The last sighting was 2 days ago, in Stamford. But he eluded us." Mycroft gazed at his brother a bit sheepishly.

Sherlock turned and gave his brother a disappointed look.

"Are you sure you don't want me to stay?" Mycroft asked warily, he didn't want to leave but tonight was John's bachelor party.

"I don't require your company Mycroft." Sherlock said shortly.

"I know that Sherlock, but you have been...alone for sometime."

Sherlock looked at his brother and gave him a small smile. "I'll be fine" and turned away, "Besides, you wouldn't want to disappoint John. Or Lestrade for that matter," Sherlock said smugly.

The words hung in the air for a moment, before Mycroft could respond, his mobile rang. He answered it. "Yes...Understood. Tell the driver I will be leaving now," Mycroft said briskly before he hung up and Sherlock gave him a questioning look.

"He's been seen on surveillance, by the docks."

"I'm coming with you."

"No, absolutely not. It is not safe for you to be out in public."

"What were you planning on doing Mycroft?"

"Follow our operatives that are tracking Moran"

"From a discreet distance?"

"Well...yes."

"In that tank of a car with the tinted windows?"

Mycroft simply nodded.

"Right, then I won't get out of the car," Sherlock said, and then strode out of the library to the front closet. He pulled out his beloved Belfast coat that he left behind, put it on and walked back to the library. He poked his head in and looked at his brother

"Coming?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes and grabbed his coat.

* * *

Sherlock slammed his hand down onto the seat of the car. "Damn it, Mycroft, what kind of morons do you have working for you!"

He yelled over the sounds of the radio. There was a scramble of voices, asking questions, shouting orders. Moran had seen Mycroft's people tailing him and jumped out of the taxi he was in as it slowed down at a signal light. He took off on foot, weaved his way through the streets of London. Sherlock tried his best to direct Mycroft's agents over the radio, but it was no use. Moran was gone.

"This is the second time he's gotten away from you brother." Sherlock spat out the words. Mycroft looked down and a silence settled over them in the car. Mycroft took out his mobile.

"Is the surveillance footage ready?" He hung up and then accessed his email. There was a recording of Moran's movements over the past hour attached, he opened it and wordlessly handed it over to Sherlock.

There was Moran, standing just outside of a warehouse. He had appeared out of the shadows, then walked over to the water front. He took out his mobile and snapped some pictures. He made a few phone calls. He walked up and down the waters edge. After about 15 minutes, he walked to the main road and hailed a cab. He made a few stops before he leapt from the cab, and the rest of the recording was snippets of Moran appearing and disappearing from different CCTV.

Sherlock stared at the screen and rewinded it back. He paused the image of Moran staring at the waterfront. "What were you looking at?" Sherlock mumbled to himself.

Mycroft looked over to his brother.

"I must go down there" Sherlock ordered.

Mycroft shook his head forcefully.

"He's gotten away from you - twice. There may be a clue as to what he is up to," Sherlock said sternly.

Mycroft shook his head again. When Sherlock reached for the car door handle, Mycroft grabbed his wrist. Sherlock pressed his body towards Mycroft.

"You won't be able to keep me in here. Don't underestimate me brother." Sherlock gave Mycroft a hard stare, daring him to try and stop him.

Mycroft gave him a slow nod, and then ordered his driver "Take us to the warehouse."

Sherlock sat down and silently handed Mycroft's mobile back. He steepled his hands and closed his eyes, thinking of what was in that area that would interest Moran. Would he be returning? Mycroft would have to place the area under tighter observation. So close, it was just out of his reach, the end of this all. He just needed to catch Moran.

Mycroft watched his brother race through his thoughts, his body tense. This battle had taken a toll on Sherlock, and he was wound tightly. Perhaps he wasn't thinking clearly. Mycroft glanced down at his phone and played the surveillance recording. He pulled up a satellite map of the area, zooming in at a few points, and then played the surveillance recording again.

Mycroft closed his eyes and thought it through slowly...he snapped his eyes open and called out to his driver "Stop the car"

* * *

Sherlock sat in the driver's seat of the car, alone. He stared out at the waterfront, the same that Moran had been looking at. The answer could be just out there, waiting for him. Sherlock slipped his fingers into the car door handle and pulled. Just as he began to emerge from the car, a shot rang out through the night.

It was in the distance, and not the sound of the caliber gun he was expecting. Sherlock ducked back into the car quickly just as his phone pinged with a text message.

_All clear - MH_

Sherlock got out of the car, and heard a man moan in pain. He saw a flash of light on a nearby roof, and started to walk over.

Mycroft kicked the rifle off the roof, hovered over the man he had just shot, and slid his mobile back into his pocket. Colonel Sebastian Moran panted in pain as he looked about the area in confusion.

"They're gone. Your men have been...dealt with. It's over." Mycroft said.

"Clever. Figured it was a trap then?" Moran said slightly breathlessly.

"There's nothing here worth looking at" Mycroft said as he gestured around. "You wanted to be seen. And you wanted to see who would show up to investigate."

Moran got his breathing under control, and calmed himself. His black camouflage blended into the roof very well. He slowly slid his leg underneath him as he spoke.

"I saw you in Stamford, hours after your men lost me. I was positive your clever brother would be the one to show up" Moran said. "I didn't think you left that office of yours. What brings you out here? Just little old me?"

"You made it personal when you went after my brother."

Moran clutched his shoulder as he staggered to get up. Mycroft took a step back and kept his gun leveled at the man.

"You should have learned from my boss, Mr. Holmes. Never get your hands dirty. You should have let your men deal with me."

"I am more than capable of -" and in a flash, the wounded man before him sprung like a coiled snake, lashed out and knocked Mycroft's gun from his grasp.

Mycroft managed to dodge the first blow, but was laid out by the second. He raised his leg, and swept across at knee level, hitting Moran and bringing him down. He straightened up and tried to pin him, but the colonel rolled away. Mycroft scampered to give chase, grabbing him by the ankle. He felt Moran pull at him with his unwounded arm. Mycroft's body was thrown forward and with another firm push, he was off the edge of the roof.

Sherlock had heard the scuffle as he climbed the ladder on the side of the building. He planted his feet firmly and pulled a gun from his jacket. He heard Mycroft's voice cry out and Sherlock broke out into a run.

As he came over the pitch of the roof, he saw Moran as he walked over, picked up a gun off the roof, and then back to the edge.

"I told you, you should have let your men deal with me." Moran said as he took aim at Mycroft, who had a precarious hold on a pipe protruding from the side of the warehouse, just under the edge of the roof.

Mycroft grunted with the effort to hold on while Moran slid his finger into place and started to press down. He suddenly turned at a sound, and when a shot rang out, the colonel came off the edge and flew past Mycroft, landing with a thud onto the pavement below.

Sherlock ran to the edge, tossed his gun aside and called out for his older brother.

"Mycroft!" as he quickly laid down and reached off the side. "Grab my hand!"

Mycroft's face was covered in sweat. He got a firm grip with his right hand and thrusted his left hand towards his brother. Sherlock grabbed hold, wrapped his other hand around, as he brought his feet beneath him and started to pull.

"My God Mycroft, I thought you had lost weight!"

"Just pull me up Sherlock!" Mycroft admonished, grabbing hold with his other hand.

Mycroft got his feet under him and crawled onto the roof, breathing hard from the exertion. He laid himself flat and stared up to the sky.

"Thank you," he huffed out and looked at his little brother as he came over and sat down.

"You're welcome," Sherlock responded, slightly out of breath as well.

Mycroft turned his gaze to the stars above as the clouds cleared. He saw a constellation and he thought how apropos.

"Look, Sherlock, the constellation Hydra. The multi-headed monster."

"I know what a Hydra is," he responded flatly.

"Like Moriarty's network" Mycroft said encouragingly.

Sherlock hummed in response as he gazed up at the stars.

"You don't see it do you?" Mycroft asked as Sherlock searched the sky.

"Not really my area."

* * *

Mycroft sat in the library, holding a heat pad to the side of his abdomen where Moran had struck him. His body was complaining about the rough treatment, and he would certainly be sore tomorrow for John's wedding.

His mobile sitting on the table rang out. It was John. He looked at the time, 2:34am, and thought he would just let it go to voicemail. Mycroft had already received several from John and Gregory, inquiring where he was instead of at the bachelor party. Each message getting more and more interesting as they both had more to drink.

Sherlock walked in and handed Mycroft a glass of water and a couple of paracetemol. Mycroft's phone beeped with a new message. Sherlock glanced down and asked "John's called you?"

"Mmm, I'm sure another drunken message, like the others..." Mycroft waved his hand and swallowed the pills.

Sherlock reached out and pressed play on the message, and putting it on speaker.

"You missed my bachelor party. You misssssed it! I would look around the bar at all my other mates and thought...Damn It! You really, really should be here. But I understand why you couldn't be. You're busy. Busy...being dead!" John laughed hysterically.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, Mycroft sat up in his chair as they both stared at the phone.

"I know, that's not funny. Sherlock! I'm getting married tomorrow! Now, that's funny. She looooves me. A lot. And I love you. A lot. Doesn't make sense does it. Nope. No sense at all. But it's not a problem, for me really. Someday, I'll join you here." John gave out a sigh. "I got that plot right over there and then I can be with you, forever. I only have to pretend to be over you for a little while. Mary will keep me company 'til then. For like, decades..." John's voice went very soft, and he muttered in his drunken state. "Should be you in a dress, a white dress. No, no, not a dress. A suit, a white suit, down there. By the church man, and the alter...should be you". Then the message ended.

Sherlock crumpled into the chair next to Mycroft. His ears started to ring loudly, but he could just make out Mycroft's voice as he spoke into the phone. "Just make sure he gets home."

Mycroft set down the phone and looked his brother over.

Sherlock rubbed his hands over his face, as if that would take the pain away. He had prepared himself, that John was to be with someone else. But to know, that after all this time, he still wanted...

Sherlock stood up and started to walk quickly towards the door.

Mycroft called out.

"Tell him your alive..."

Sherlock stopped and stood still.

"No"

"Why not? The threat of Moran is gone. It's over. Sherlock.." Mycroft got up out of the chair and came to stand in front of Sherlock. "He wants to be with you. Sherlock. It's clear."

"He'll hate me. For lying to him. He only...has those feelings, because he thinks I'm dead," Sherlock looked past his brother's face.

"He was laying on your grave, Sherlock. Just now. The night before his wedding. Looking forward to the time when he could be with you," Mycroft said forcefully, just as Sherlock tried to maneuver out of the room. Mycroft blocked his path and grabbed him by the shoulders.

"If you wait to tell him after he marries a woman he doesn't love, he will hate you even more," Mycroft said.

"I can't be what he needs!" Sherlock shouted as he pulled away. "What if I can't...feel what he needs me to feel."

"Are you afraid you can't love him?" Mycroft said carefully.

"I don't know if I am capable of it." Sherlock said sadly and stumbled away.

Mycroft stood silently, closed his eyes, and listened to his brother's footsteps as he walked upstairs and into his bedroom.

He thought carefully, and then walked to his chair, reached for his phone. He sent a text to Anthea, asking her to come over and keep an eye on Sherlock. Mycroft had to do something...


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really, just one more chapter after this. I meant it this time. 
> 
> Thanks for the kudos and comments, and for reading my brain on paper. It is very much appreciated.

Sherlock's voice filled the flat.

_"...I'll be sad to leave Paris, but our work here is done, and time to move on. We...we should take a holiday here sometime, when I get back."_

John smiled at the thought of Sherlock in a Paris café. If John had been there, Sherlock would have leaned over to give his deductions of all who passed, perhaps shared a laugh.

John stood as Sherlock's next message started, headed to the kitchen for a sandwich from the thoughtfully stocked fridge, and to brew another cup of tea.

_"Incompetent, really. Worse then NSY. I'd give anything to have Lestrade back right now. Stephanson had to pull me out before I got too angry. He's learning how to deal with me, slowly. Nothing like you of course, but he's one of Mycroft's men, so I expect very little intelligence wise"_

John snapped his head around. Stephanson? Mycroft's man named Stephanson? John abandoned his tea and strode to the bookcase. He replayed the message, to hear the name again.

 _Stephanson_.

He paused the recording, pulled out his mobile and texted Mycroft.

_Stephanson? - JW_

_Yes - MH_

John dialed and did not wait for Mycroft to speak.

"You had me analyze all of Stephanson and Dawson's evidence and reports. You had me supporting them in the field..."

"Yes John"

"And since Stephanson was killed, I've worked with Dawson...for years, I've worked with him. I just arranged his extraction from Africa to London...yesterday."

John rubbed a hand across his face. His mind paused and he remembered, the realization sweeping over him. He caught his breath and the words tumbled out.

"When...when Dawson refused to meet with his new partner, you had asked me to go."

Mycroft gave no response.

"But I chose to stay - chose to stay! Do you really think I would have stayed if I had known it was Sherlock out there?" John shouted into the phone as he stalked to the window and stared down to the black sedan. He wanted to direct his anger at the manipulative bastard who had been pulling the strings.

Mycroft gazed out the car window and saw the doctor peering down. He should face this, in person, he knew he had to. He stepped out of the car and looked up at the window to make eye contact with John. He walked towards the door to the flat but John raised his hand up to stop him.

Mycroft took a couple steps back, steadied himself, and brought the phone back up to his ear.

"He was alone. He was out of communication. I was...concerned," Mycroft broke eye contact with John, and looked down to the pavement as he kicked an imaginary pebble.

He had panicked, when 10 days had passed without hearing from Sherlock. "It turned out for the best, that you didn't go"

"I thought...thought I was doing more good here in London, working with Lestrade and your agents to clear Sherlock's name. To-to bring down Moriarty's network" He could have...could have been there.

"The work you've done has been invaluable John. You helped guide him, researched his clues, made sense of the evidence. You and Lestrade cleared every one of his Yard cases...proved he was real. He's able to come home because of that work"

"It didn't have to be this way, Mycroft. I should have been with him, from the very beginning."

"You're wrong. It had to be this way. You proved Sherlock was dead. Each day, you proved it to Moran that Sherlock was dead. The grief...no one could have ever faked that."

"I'm so glad my emotional breakdown and suffering was useful to you Mycroft." John stabbed the words through the window.

Mycroft pressed his lips together, but said nothing.

"Is it done? Moran was tracked here. That's what Dawson was coming to London for. Is it over?"

"Yes, we found him last night. It's over John."

"Then I want to see him. Right now Mycroft."

"Listen to the messages John." Mycroft said, and then hung up. He turned and slid back into his sedan.

John was numb. He didn't understand. Just...

He walked to the bookcase and pressed play to listen to the next message.

_"Of all the inane chatter you and I had, I do wish we would have discussed this. Why does it feel like a part of me drained away when I pulled that trigger? And I feel...I feel everything. My emotions...this is your fault John..."_

The first time Dawson had killed another person, Stephanson reported that it had been difficult.

_"Is it always this way the first time? I need to numb this..."_

John slowly closed his eyes at the sound of quiver in his friend's voice. He had heard it before. On a danger night, the need to get high and forget would be overwhelming, and John had always been vigilant to keep Sherlock centered. What if...

A flicker of desperate anger started to build.

John should have been the one to take that shot, in Prague.

No one needs to have that experience rolling around in their head, watching someone die from a bullet you delivered.

Watching the life fade from the eyes,

Sherlock should never have to know,

That never should have happened,

It's not for him to...

The anger boiled over.

"Damn it, Sherlock!" John shouted at the recorded voice "I should have been there!"

* * *

Sherlock walked sleepily into the library, his dressing robe hung off one shoulder as he carried a cup of tea he had brewed himself. He took a quick sip. Not terribly good. He wasn't surprised to find the room empty, he had heard Mycroft leave last night and had not heard him return.

He settled into the chair that faced the wall where the work was on display. It was a great piece of art, that had taken years to create. The papers and photos Mycroft had hung were colorful and varied as they mapped out every aspect of Sherlock's journey, creating a mosaic of abstract art. On many, there were tea stains, smudges of late night dinners across the pages. Many were creased and folded from repeated handling. Mycroft's small, precise handwriting was scribbled on most everything.

Ever present throughout were photos of Sherlock, in the disguise and personae he held for that particular operation. Some taken with Sherlock's knowledge, many clearly without. There was one of him as he stood on the Pont d'Arcole, looking out at the river. His expression soft and wistful. Sherlock barely recognized himself. He remembered that day...when he thought he had heard John at the café, he had been consumed by a body aching loneliness he had never anticipated. He walked along the river to clear his head and stopped on that bridge.

Sherlock took another sip of his tea and looked the wall over again. He thought of his brother, hanging these photos. These years, with his brother watching over him, felt less like an intrusion and more like companionship. A shift from how their relationship had been since...

He smiled to himself.

He set down his tea and shuffled back to his bedroom. He rummaged through the wardrobe. Nothing, nothing here looked right. Not good enough, to pass a glance from John. But Sherlock had to go. At Baker Street, if all was put back in it's rightful place as Mycroft had promised, then his disguises and makeup kit should be there. It was time to settle back home anyway. He took out his mobile from his dressing gown.

_My flat ready? - SH_

_Almost - MH_

_I will pack and head over -SH_

_I'll send Anthea over to pick you up in 30 minutes - MH_

_If you must - SH_

_You are still dead to the people of this city - MH_

_I suppose - SH_

_Trust me - MH_

* * *

John had run the gambit of emotions, from deep anger to immense joy and relief, that Sherlock was alive. That he hadn't committed suicide. He had survived. He was home.

Mycroft had been very clever. To have John working on Sherlock's cases. It was as if they had gone through them together, in a way. And now John knew everything that Sherlock had been doing these years. And then there were these voicemail messages.

Although Sherlock had expressed his emotions more than John had ever heard, there was a reservedness that remained in his messages. Sherlock still kept a part of himself wrapped up. He knew John would hear these messages one day. John had poured his heart out, held nothing back because there was no one listening.

He listened to Sherlock's last message, from yesterday. His friend was giving him a way out. A chance take back those unfiltered words John had spoken to the dead. To continue on like nothing happened, as if nothing significant had been said. John replayed the last message again.

He stood for another cup of tea just as Sherlock's last words pushed through the flat.

_"My best wishes John, and I hope...I hope you will be able to forgive me."_

John sat down, propped his feet up on the foot stool, folded his hands to rest in his lap and started to think.

* * *

Mycroft glanced in on the doctor, his phone displayed the video feed he had installed. The man was just sitting there, staring at...Sherlock's chair?...out the window?...nothing? The recordings were finished and there was just silence in the flat. As he gazed at the screen, a text message came up.

_What is the delay? - SH_

_Some finishing touches - MH_

_Surely I can be in the flat for that? - SH_

_Want it perfect for you - MH_

* * *

Sherlock looked up from his mobile and over to Anthea with a smirk. She did not return his gaze. Her mobile pinged, and he sideways glance to the screen, but she had a protective film on it to prevent such an intrusion.

_Do not let him out of the car - MH_

Sherlock looked her over.

"You look good. Put on a bit of weight though. Working for my brother seems to have rubbed off."

She slowly raised her eyes to meet his.

"Just...right.." Sherlock said as he gestured to the underside of his chin with the back of his hand. "Gone a bit soft there.."

She turned away without a word and Sherlock gave a disappointed smirk

He straightened the cuffs of his dress shirt, through the ends of his suit jacket. He had already tried the car door, her response had been swift. And the dynamic tinting on the windows made it impossible to see out. They could be in front of Baker Street or out front of Buckingham Palace for all Sherlock knew. He had no choice but to wait.

* * *

John smiled to himself. He had just taken a walk through his own mind. Flipping through the story that had been his life. Coming home from the war, meeting Sherlock, learning to enjoy living again, becoming Dr. John Watson, faithful companion and blogger to the world's only consulting detective, and never bored.

He felt more alive just thinking about what his life could be like with Sherlock back, than he had felt the entire time he had been gone. It was as if those years were just a hole that he could sew up and forget all about. But could John get past the betrayal? Could he forgive?

_I want to see him - JW_

_He's on his way - MH_

* * *

The doors unlocked on the car and the window tinting dimmed. He was outside his flat. His flat at Baker Street.

"He's waiting for you upstairs," Anthea said. "I'll follow with your things."

Sherlock hummed in response as he opened the door and stepped out.

He strode to the front door with a quick glance towards Mycroft's sedan parked at the curb. He turned the knob, dashed up the stairs, and started calling out to his brother when he reached the landing.

"Why was I kept waiting?" Sherlock chided, just as he strode into the sitting room.

"I've kept you waiting?"

The muscles in Sherlock's body came to an abrupt halt. His mind's processing speed dropped to an imperceptible rate.

John

That was John's voice

And there...was...John

His shoulders pulled back tight with his hands clasped behind him.

Jumper, denims, trainers...bit of fry up on his cheek, so breakfast with Mary,

Tip of sock peaking over the edge of his denims, he had been in a hurry,

2...no 3 cups of tea...been here a while then.

He faced the door and stared at Sherlock, his expression tight with a hint of...something.

"You're surprised to see me," John deduced from the frozen look on Sherlock's face.

John had barely gotten that same look off of his own face before Sherlock walked in. When he saw Sherlock dash from the car into the flat, the lean silhouette draped in a bespoke suit, a crown of raven curls - his heart had nearly stopped.

"Yes John, I-I didn't think you would be here," as Sherlock steadied his feet and cast a sideways glance at the doctor.

"Indeed, well, I suppose that's only fair, since I did not expect to see you here either. Or anywhere, except perhaps the cemetery," John weighed that last word down with heavy sarcasm.

John turned his head just so, and the sunlight from the window casted a shadow across his face, highlighted the deep creases pressed in. The man was holding his emotion in.

"You're angry" Sherlock stated.

"Yes, I am feeling angry. With subtle hints of shock mixed in. Stunned. Bits of overwhelming happiness at the sight of you." He allowed himself a small smile to relieve the pressure that was building inside of him. He had to keep that at bay. He needed some answers first.

"John, I had intended to come to you, after your -" Sherlock took a half step into the room.

"Yes, I know. I listened to your last phone message."

The realization struck Sherlock...so that's what his brother had done last night.

"Mycroft, you bastard," he turned his head and spoke softly to the flat, knowing his dear brother was listening in. He looked at John "You've listened. Listened to all of my messages"

"Yes. Just as I assume you have listened to all of mine"

Sherlock nodded his head. Well, then this should be easy. Still wasn't Mycroft's place to...

"So you understand then, why I had to do it." Sherlock took a hopeful step closer, but a flash of anger on John's face stilled him.

"Do I understand?" John said, and then laughed a bit maniacally, "Do I understand?"

"I explained...I told you in those messages" Sherlock said cautiously.

"Why not try again, in person, face to face. I'm not as smart as you, remember" he said as he slowly walked to the fireplace. He followed an imaginary boundary that he had established in his mind. Any closer and he would be overwhelmed with the need to just...

John propped his elbow on the mantle, rested his fingers on the top of the skull.

Sherlock started carefully and turned his body to face John. "On the roof, Moriarty gave me choice. I knew it was coming -"

"And you deliberately kept me out of it" John said measuredly, as he stared blankly at the skull and ran his right forefinger across the cranial suture.

"Yes...I did. He wanted me to die in disgrace, to kill myself. If I didn't - you, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade would be killed, immediately. I had anticipated that he would threaten me, just was not certain with what. If it had just been strangers -"

"Would that have mattered?" John asked as he pulled his head up and looked at Sherlock.

"Strangers aren't you" Sherlock said. Obviously.

John opened his mouth to speak, but stopped himself. He looked at Sherlock's face, the sincerity draped across it. The openness of his stance. He gave a nod "Go on"

"Then the idiot killed himself, and the only option I had left vanished. Don't you see I had to do it, to save you" Sherlock quickly covered a few steps of the distance between them, pleading.

"To save me?" John responded incredulously

"Yes"

"It-it destroyed me Sherlock! To watch you...kill yourself!" John pushed out the words and pulled in a deep breath.

"I died that day! The man you knew Sherlock - died that day. All that survived was just a-a shadow on the wall. That's all you saved. A pitiful, pathetic sliver of who I used to be. You left me...to suffer, to die a little bit every day, to wonder what I could have done to stop you." John pressed in a step towards Sherlock and shook with anger he didn't know was inside of him.

"Do you know what that's like? To bleed a little more, everyday, to look forward to death. I had to...try...so hard not to put myself out of my own misery, to just follow you." John's face looked like a wound that had just had the bandage ripped off.

"I know, John. I saw...I was there that night..."

"You.." John looked away, closed his eyes, held his breath. "You left the...you were there that night?" John's breathing hitched. He had thought he had imagined it, Sherlock sitting in the corner watching over him.

He bit his lip, and reached out to the skull, yanked out the ammunition clip from underneath, sending the skull tumbling to the floor.

"It took everything I had not to come back over here and get this!" He shook the clip in his fist at Sherlock as his breath quickened and his chest heaved. He couldn't...he can't...can't think of it. This was too hard. Can't breathe... He darted to the door.

Sherlock hovered between, stepping to and fro to keep John from leaving as he pleaded.

"John, I-I am sorry, please, you must know that. If there was a way to take you with me. I asked Mycroft, for you to be by my side. I needed you. He said we would have been too conspicuous to go undetected. I was more than willing to take the risk."

Sherlock reached out and grabbed John by the shoulders, "I could not put you in danger. Not again."

Hands...strong...long fingers, dug into John's shoulders. Real. Real. Sherlock's hands were real. Last night he laid upon this man's grave, and now here he was, alive. And the feel of his hands, the proof of life it created spread through his body and mind.

"What is it that you want, Sherlock? Why did you come back? Why did you answer my messages?" John said in a soft desperate voice, as Sherlock's hands relaxed from a grip to resting on John's shoulders.

Sherlock gave John a questioning look, not sure what the right answer was.

"I wanted my life back."

"Your life? You had the work, I thought that was all you needed."

Sherlock dropped his hands down as well as his gaze...he stared at the skull laying askew on the floor.

"It-it is, but I need...I found that I needed...more"

"You needed, what? Sherlock? What did you need?"

"I just needed it all to go back...back to the way it was before I left".

"It can't be that way any more Sherlock."

John's mind had cracked open a door just as a gust of wind from reality came in to slam it shut. He was so angry. He had a life and now he needed to get back to it.

He moved to go, and Sherlock reached out to stop him

"Don't go" as he wrapped a loose grip on John's bicep.

"Why? Why - do you have something else to say to me?" John challenged, taking a half step closer to Sherlock.

"I-I don't know" Sherlock muttered, leaning a bit away.

"You've had all this time to come up with something brilliant to say..." John tilted his head to the side as he waited. Maybe if he heard the right words...

"I didn't ask you here. I wasn't ready"

"Right, that's right. Mycroft lured me here and sent you over." John gave short chuckle, that interfering bastard. "Then I'm off, let me know when your ready to talk."

"Are you still angry or do you forgive me?"

"Yes to the first. No to the second," John retorted sharply.

He turned to look at his friend. His face was an open book. John could read the anguish, the pain. He hadn't seen that before. Sherlock had suffered through this too. They had lost each other.

And his heart softened a bit. He let a few of the words that he had been holding back slide out.

"I am...so glad you are alive, Sherlock. I really am. Every day...even last night...all I wanted, more than anything was to have you back." He reached a hesitant hand out to the top of Sherlock shoulder and slowly placed it in a soothing gesture.

A bit of Sherlock's pained expression drained away through the warmth of John's hand.

"You killed yourself. You were dead. As much as I wanted to, there was nothing I could have done to change that." John sighed.

"But now...to know, that you left me, you chose to leave me behind. That you and Mycroft planned it this way. To manipulate me, to put my pain on a flag and wave it around for Moran to see, as your proof of death. It's hard, for me. I am angry, but I am sure it will pass. Forgiveness is hard, for me. And trust, is difficult. It will take time Sherlock." And John wanted to try it seemed. Sherlock's expression turned a bit hopeful.

Reality...there it was just through that door. Today was John's wedding day. Part of John's life as it was. John was a man of his word, true to his commitments. Faithful, devoted. John may have wanted...he pushed that aside. This was all too painful. He knew what he had to do and he almost believed the words that he spoke.

"You were right Sherlock. We both said things in those messages that we never would have said. And probably didn't even mean. I just missed my best friend. I missed you. And the pain was so much, the loneliness...well, you seem to understand."

"Yes, I understand," Sherlock responded automatically, unconsciously nodded his head. What was he agreeing to? He didn't understand.

John looked at the confused expression building on Sherlock's face, and quickly pulled the man into a desperate hug.

"God, from the minute I saw you dash out of that car, I wanted to give you a hug." John held on a bit tighter, as Sherlock awkwardly tried to return the gesture.

"Really John? I was certain that when you first saw me, you would hit me in the face"

"That thought had occurred to me as well." John said, more than half serious.

Sherlock pressed into John's embrace, closed his eyes and savored the closeness even as fear crept in and weighed in the pit of his stomach.

John held onto Sherlock, hoping to freeze time or go back in time. But he shifted out of Sherlock's arms and took a step towards the door. He forced a smile.

"I'm so excited that you get to meet Mary. Can you come to the wedding?"

"Of course," Sherlock said with his voice cracking a bit. "I wouldn't miss it."

John nodded. Time to leave.

"I should go. Can't keep a bride waiting."

"No, no, of course not. I'm sorry Mycroft meddled like this."

"I know. It's fine Sherlock, really." John stepped away and through the sitting room door towards the stairs. He stopped and glanced back. Yes, Sherlock was still there.

"See you later?"

Sherlock gave a clipped nod and a wave.

John gave a tight smile and walked down the stairs.

Sherlock turned and stepped to the front window. He looked down as John crossed the pavement to the black sedan that had just pulled up. Anthea stepped out and ushered John in.

And Sherlock thought of what he had said to John... _"I wanted my life back"_

Sherlock thought to himself, watching the sedan drive away.

_There goes my life_

* * *

In a way, it was for the best. That Sherlock had not come to the wedding. John looked out again, to the people sitting in the pews. No Sherlock. Well, yes, for the best. There was a chance, that if he saw Sherlock again, his heart would have taken over his mind. His heart was being irrational. And his mind was set upon this. This was the right thing to do. There was Mary, beautiful, she loved him, she wanted him...and she was staring at him. Why was she staring at him?

"John?" Mary asked with a little underlying urgency in her voice.

"Oh, yes. Sorry. Right," He smiled at her, and glanced at the waiting clergy. "I do"

There was a bit of rolling laughter through the church as Mary gave an exaggerated sigh and pulled him into a kiss. He closed his eyes as he pressed into her trembling lips. As they parted, he slowly opened them and cast his gaze through the church again, he caught Mycroft's eyes just over his shoulder as he stood next to Greg. His groomsmen were both applauding, Greg clapping wildly with a genuine smile. Mycroft had a tight lipped faux grin, and an overcast look. John looked away.

It all passed in a blur, as he and Mary marched back down the aisle, past the pews, to stand outside in front of the church, she quickly gave him another kiss and overflowed with happiness. She was flushed and so excited as they greeted their guests as they exited the church. John shook hands with their friends, family, and some people he didn't even know.

An old man gave Mary an awkward hug and kiss on the cheek, muttered his congratulations. She gave a quick nod, and turned her attention to the next guest. The man reached out to shake John's hand, placed the other hand on John's arm and leaned in a bit. A deep baritone voice filled John's ear.

"Congratulations John"

His heart caught in his throat and he could not respond fast enough. Sherlock's hand slipped out of John's grip, slid down John's arm...leaving a trail of ache behind. And when John's mind finally caught up to look for Sherlock, he was already a few steps away, by the street. A black sedan pulled up behind him and the old man that was Sherlock turned his focus back to the newlyweds. John stared back with an expression on his face that told Sherlock everything he needed to know.

He gave John a smile. The smile he never gave to anyone else. He turned and got into the car.

* * *

It was dark when the car pulled up to his flat. Sherlock had asked the driver to just drive around the city. It was like seeing an old friend again. Looking out the window at London going by. The streets he knew so well. It soothed him while in the back of his mind he ran through John's itinerary. Reception, dinner, off to the airport...

Sherlock stepped out of the car. Most of the disguise he wore to John's wedding was in the bag he carried, but he still had a bit of makeup on that he was eager to wash off. He walked into the flat confidently. Mycroft had arranged for Mrs. Hudson to be away tonight, after the reception, to stay at a nearby luxury hotel she could not refuse.

He climbed the stairs and walked into his bedroom, dropped his bag on the bed. He took off his clothes and jumped into the shower. He let the hot water run down his body as he leaned his forehead against the tile.

He needed a plan. There was nothing more important. Sherlock realized that, now. He should have known, anticipated. He would not settle for another failure in this regard.

Mycroft would help him, Sherlock knew. And he was not too proud to ask his brother for his assistance, not for John. Even though this was entirely Mycroft's fault.

He wasn't afraid anymore. He had no hesitation.

His mind pulled his next steps together and he quickly washed himself up. Sherlock stepped out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, drying his hair with another. As he walked into his bedroom, he heard a slight sound. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson was here after all. He took a step towards the darkened stairway to listen. Nothing.

He glanced towards the sitting room, the door was slightly open. It was not left open when he had departed for John's wedding. He slowly slid the towel in his hand to drape over his neck. Was there someone Sherlock had missed? A threat that remained?

He prepared himself anything and then leapt into the room, planting his feet and took a quick glance around the dark room for his target.

There, in Sherlock's chair. Sherlock made his move towards the intruder, when suddenly the light came on, blinding Sherlock for a moment.

The top of the man's head came into focus. Blonde, the head moved, blue eyes looked back. Dressed in black, a tux, the tie undone -

John

He pressed back into Sherlock's chair and smiled.

Sherlock stopped his motion, recovered his body from its forward momentum. He centered his stance to steady and lowered his arms to his sides. He immediately and self-consciously remembered he was standing in just a towel. He gave John a bit of a smirk.

Sherlock wasn't sure what to say...

John didn't know either. Just smiled. And the silence between them became a bit awkward. He leaned forward as he continued to look at Sherlock, he placed his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together. Then he looked down to the rug. And words came out, piercing the silence.

"I'm a coward"

Then he looked up at Sherlock, who gave John a questioning look.

"An old man at my wedding made me realize that"

Sherlock gave a slow smile, cautious. John was here, not on a plane. Not with Mary. Not on a honeymoon. No ring on his finger.

Sherlock was smart. A genius. But he could not understand what was going on here.

John could see it on Sherlock's face, the confusion. He's sure he's never seen that particular look on the detective's face before. He stood and came to stand in front of Sherlock.

"I lied to you. Before. When I told you I didn't mean what I said in my messages."

Sherlock nodded his head for John to continue. Sherlock was not quite ready to speak.

"I meant every word" John said slowly, with a certainty and conviction in his voice.

"You are everything I ever wanted, and more than I knew I could have. You gave me such a wonderous life that I had never imagined possible. I have been happier today...arguing with you, angry at you...than I have been in the past years, alone without you. Happier than...anyone else could ever make me."

A thousand thoughts flooded his mind, and Sherlock's heart started to beat again...words...words...they were not adequate.

Sherlock's mind told him that speaking would indeed be a good idea, and he tried

"John - " but stopped as John took a step closer and placed his hand on Sherlock's cheek. His body tingled at every nerve ending, at John's touch. The skin on Sherlock's chest had a wave of goose bumps rolling, spreading everywhere.

"Today, when I watched you get into that car and drive away. It was like watching you jump off that building all over again. You, being pulled away from me. My heart getting ripped out, again. I couldn't bear it."

Sherlock pulled in air through his teeth and tried, hard, to stopped the flood of emotion...

John looked sympathetically at Sherlock, as he caressed the soft skin of Sherlock's face.

"I knew what that meant when you were dead. That part of me was dead too. What does it mean now, to feel like this when you are alive?"

Sherlock released the breath he had been holding and smiled smugly.

"You don't know?" Sherlock asked in a soft voice. A controlled voice that helped Sherlock pretend he was in control. He gave John a look that said...it's obvious.

John shook his head and gave a smile, he slid his hand to the back of Sherlock's neck, and closed that half step of distance between them. "Tell me Sherlock, what does it mean?"

"You're an idiot" John narrowed his eyes at Sherlock's words.."For loving me..." John gave a laugh.

"You're an idiot too." John responded quietly, pushed his gaze into Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock gave John a small nod. Giving John acknowledgement. Reassurance. Permission. John was being granted access to the life he wanted, Sherlock opened himself up, he was ready. Sherlock closed his eyes.

John's breath was stolen away from him, at the sight of Sherlock's face, an unveiled canvas of emotion that no one but John was allowed to see. This was John's miracle, alive in front of him, alive and loving him. He would never hesitate again...

Feet shifted...  
Bodies swayed...  
Their heads angled...  
Arms slid into place, holding on...  
John's grip on Sherlock's neck became firm, pulling...  
They slotted in together...  
Melting into...feeling and heat and pressure...

Anticipating...

The air between them was swept away and the desire coiled around them, created a magnetic field that drew their lips together...

Into a kiss, lips pressed in a way that ripped hearts and healed all at once...

A slide of mouths, a kiss that spoke volumes and words and nothing all at the same time...

An urgent kiss, with the power to create tears in Sherlock's eyes. A force of creation, of joy, of happiness, of relief, redemption.

As they broke away from each other, breathlessly kissed, John could feel the shift in his mind. His destroyed universe was teaming with life again, everything slid back into alignment...and a new chaos took over. Love

He threaded his fingers into Sherlock's hair and looked into those stormy eyes...

"Welcome home Sherlock"


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on a plane this time, and haven't slept. But I won't have time to post for another 3 weeks, so I thought I'd give it my best shot at the end. It may be terrible, and someday I can fix it. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and motivating me in this hobby. Keeps me sane to have something besides work to focus on...

"John"

Same. This is the same. Feels the same. And John swore he heard the sound of his heart being torn, as he watched Sherlock pull away from the church. This is like before. Standing, looking and watching... His ears started to ring.

"John?"

Not again...not again. There has to be something that can be done this time. This can't be happening. He felt his arm clutched firmly, and John looked around. Lestrade. Why is he here...in a tuxedo? What is he saying?

"John, are you alright? Look at me John! For Christ's sake Mycroft, come over here and help me!" as Greg suddenly found himself with his arms full of Dr. John Watson, as John lost the ability to stand.

He pleaded over his shoulder towards Mycroft for help, and the man slowly approached with a manic joyful smug smile, that was a little frightening. He reached out to help pull the doctor to his feet.

Mary turned away from the last of the guests to talk to John, but found that he had moved to the pavement near the street and stood between Mycroft and Greg. Something didn't seem quite right.

Mary called out with concern in her voice, stared a bit wide eyed at the three of them "John, everything alright?"

Greg was going to answer in the negative, but Mycroft responded first, "Oh yes, he's fine, just a bit light headed. We'll get him some water and bring him right in"

Greg gave a slight curious look, narrowed his eyes at the other man.

"Well, okay...you sure?" she asked as she took a step towards them. Mycroft gave her a reassuring nod and a wave that turned her back towards the church.

"Alright, well, come along as soon as you can. We need to sign the papers and head out to the reception" Mary said as she was swept away by the clergy, back into the church.

John's face was ashen, and he knew...just knew. Not just the grief talking then or the pain of the loss of his best friend. He was a coward, never should have left Sherlock. Should have... John glanced at the church and his two groomsmen who still supported his weight. The three of them stood in tuxedos, for a wedding. What should he do now? There must be something that can be done...

"Yes John, there is," Mycroft said. John looked at the man, the certainty on his face. Okay, apparently Mycroft knew what to do.

"Are you certain, John? You must be absolutely sure." Mycroft held the doctor firm and looked him in the eyes.

John pulled himself up to stand tall, and straightened his jacket.

"Please, Mycroft. I know... I can't" as John glanced back to the street where Sherlock had just been, and then back to Mycroft. "I am certain."

Mycroft grabbed John by the arm and started to walk him into the church. Greg trailed behind.

"Someone want to explain to me what the hell is going on?"

"Gregory, language..." Mycroft chided playfully "Just trust me."

Greg followed them into the church, with an expression on his face that said, this should be interesting.

As they approached the church office, the sound of Mary's happy laughter filled the hall. John had a stunned expression on his face as they filed into the office.

Mary looked up at him and smiled widely. Happiest day of her life, that's what she had said to John earlier.

Oh God, how are we going to tell her?

"John, need you and your witnesses to give your signatures, and this will all be official" the clergy said happily, gave a wave of the pen towards Greg and Mycroft then gestured to the paperwork on the desk.

Mycroft slid from beside John and stood between him and Mary.

"I shall not sign." Mycroft declared.

The smile on Mary's face slid off and confusion replaced it, with a hint of hopeful levity "Sorry, what? What does that mean, you shall not sign?"

"I shall not sign, as I do not believe this marriage is what John wants."

A rush of red spread across Mary's checks, and the clergy pulled in all of the air in the room.

"What? John, what's he on about?" She snapped he attention from the offending man to her groom.

"Mary. He means that I..I can't marry you," John stammered.

"You just did marry me John! What on earth are you talking about? Have you gone mad?" She rushed a few steps forward and reached out to grab John, but Mycroft slid a half step to block her.

Mary snapped a furious confused gaze at Mycroft.

Mycroft leveled his stance, softened his eyes, and looked at Mary.

"My brother Sherlock is alive."

And no words came out of Mary's mouth even though it hung open at the ready to speak. It was like she was a video recording that they had put on pause, her stare continued to bore into to Mycroft. The intense quiet confused moment was shattered when Greg shouted out from behind.

"What? He's alive! Sherlock's alive? Bloody hell Mycroft, what on earth, I can't believe it, are you telling me all this time that bastard has been..." Greg stammered to silence as both Mary and Mycroft turned to give the stunned detective a pleading look that conveyed that perhaps this was not the time for his questions.

"The dead detective friend of yours, he's not dead?" Mary asked as she slowly blinked her way back to life.

John nodded his head.

"Not dead?" She asked again.

John nodded his head again.

"How long have you known...known that he's not dead?"

"Today, this morning, Mycroft told me. I saw him. Saw Sherlock"

Mary nodded a bit frantically as the words spewed out and increased in volume to a shout at the end. "Ok, ok, so...he's alive. Alive. Not dead. That's great, that your friend who was dead is not dead, and you saw him and he's alive. Good, good then. Answer this for me John - what exactly does that have to do with marrying me?"

John started to speak, his body tensed up, and then suddenly relaxed as he thought of how to answer. He tilted his head to the side and gave a small smile, couldn't help himself. Even thinking the words... _I love him...I'm in love with him_... made him smile, however inappropriately in front of a woman in a wedding dress.

John opened his mouth to speak, but stopped. She cast her gaze acroos his face. Mary knew him well.

She slowly nodded her head. "Today...this morning you saw him" she huffed a bit of a laugh. "You've been so happy today, like a brand new man. And I thought it was because...because of us, getting married." Her bottom lipped trembled, and she bit into it to make it stop.

John looked down, feeling sorry that it unfolded like this but perhaps not sorry enough.

"Was it ever real, for you John? Did you ever love me at all? Or was I just a place holder for a dead man?" John looked up and started to speak. Mary raised her hand up. "Don't answer that. I know... I've always known. Just...I..." She looked about the office at a loss for words.

She looked at all the faces in the room, the expression of shock on the clergy's face, pity on Greg's, and smug satisfaction on Mycroft's that she so very much wanted to smack right off of him.

And John's face... apologetic and a sadness for her on his face. But unmistakable to Mary, she could see there was happiness and clarity, that even though he was hurting her, he knew that this was the right thing.

She took both her hands and wiped away the tears that she just realized were running down her face.

"Right...well," She turned a poisonous gaze at Mycroft. "I imagine you could arrange for all trace of John to be removed from my flat, by the time I return."

John narrowed his eyes at her.

"The honeymoon... I won't let a good holiday be ruined John."

She looked at him, took a deep breath, and collected herself. She calmly took a step closer to him and gave a sad thin smile. She softly said in her playful, teasing way.

"John...I don't think I can sign those papers and marry you. I know you are feeling disappointed, confused and hurt. Just not going to work out for us John, I'm afraid. Terribly sorry. And... I'm going to really hate you for a while. Just so you know." She gave another quick smile, but she was right on the edge.

She skittered out of the office, followed by the clergy. Once she reached the hallway, in a semblance of privacy, John could hear her start to cry as she walked away.

Greg let out the breath he had been clearly holding in the whole time. "My god, that was..."

John glanced back at Greg, "Yeah, I know."

"Come on John," Mycroft immediately walked out of the office and towards the street as he quickly texted. John and Greg stutter stepped to follow.

Mycroft's mobile pinged with a response as John and Greg caught up with him.

"He's driving around the city now John. We should let him come back at his own speed. I expect you want to be at Baker St. when he returns?" Mycroft said, turned towards John and Greg as a black sedan pulled up next to them.

John nodded dumbly...sure, sounds right.

"Good luck John." Mycroft said with a smile, as he reached out and opened the sedan door.

"Right" John glanced at Greg and then Mycroft. "Umm, thanks, Mycroft."

Mycroft gave a nod and watched John as he slid into the sedan.

Greg watched John drive away and then turned to the man standing next to him.

"So, where are we going?" Greg asked, as he bounced excitedly on the balls of his feet, hands in his pockets.

Mycroft gave the detective a very confused questioning look.

"Well, I was expecting a good meal, followed by cake. And dancing. I got all dressed up." Greg gave a game show wave from his shoulders down to his shoes. "The way I see it, you at least owe me good time tonight. A nice dinner and a very, very, long detailed explanation."

Greg gave his sideways smile, with a mischievous glint in his eyes and enjoyed the look of confusion on Mycroft's face.

Mycroft was smart. A genius. But he could not understand what was going on here.

Anthea stepped out of the black sedan just down the block, and gave them a wave.

Greg looped his arm through Mycroft's, and pressed close, whispered in his ear "Come on Mycroft, let's go" and led him away.

* * *

John lingered his gaze across Sherlock's sealed eyes and kiss swollen lips, as he slowly pulled away. He felt a slide in his vision, like a lens being put in place that would forever change how he saw this man before him. This was the person John loved, forever if allowed.

And then the day caught up with John, all the emotions started to overwhelm him, he could feel sparks of questions and fear and hope and happiness... when the towel wrapped about Sherlock's waist relented to the movement of their first kiss, slid down and landed on the floor with a thump. The sound effectively snapped John out of his head.

John held his laughter back as Sherlock slowly opened his eyes, tried not to make eye contact with John as he raised his gaze to the heavens and sighed.

"And now I'm naked in the sitting room."

"Yes..yes..you are indeed" John giggled a bit while he tried really hard not to take advantage of the situation to sneak a peek at the naked man in front of him.

An embarrassed flush spread across Sherlock's face, across his chest, and John took pity on the detective.

He pulled the towel from Sherlock's neck, unfurled it and wrapped it around Sherlock's waist, careful not to linger or brush the skin that John realized he suddenly wanted, more than anything, to touch.

Sherlock gave a silent nod in thanks.

He took a half step away as he said, "I'll just go get dressed"

John gave a look that asked why.

"Well, I'm not going to have this discussion in a towel."

"Are we having a discussion?" John asked, feigning a look of innocence that was completely at odds with the lusty thoughts that were rapidly filling his mind.

Sherlock paused his movement "I had assumed so, yes. Given your tendency to over analyze, your need to talk everything out, your staunch heterosexuality being thrown into the wind, and habit of being overly dramatic"

"I am overly dramatic?" John responded incredulously.

"Really John". Obviously

John just shook away his disbelief. Not important, to discuss that now, certainly not compared to the need to...

"If you feel like you want to be dressed, by all means. Best to decide, because, right now...I don't think I can...not touch you. Having you stand before me in nothing but a towel is suddenly making it very hard to resist exploring every inch of you."

Sherlock gave a long appraising look at John, before he said

"Is that a traditional response to declaration of love?"

"I don't know if it's traditional. It's how I feel right now, looking at you" John closed the gap and settled his right palm on the slice of hip in front of him, causing Sherlock to shiver. "Feels like a normal response, to all this."

John pressed in a bit more to share the space.

"Hmm, a normal response? Yes, well, that explains why I'm suddenly..." And they both looked down to the front of the towel, which was now misshapen by Sherlock's... response. And as his response started to grow, the towel once again became dislodged, and dropped to the floor.

Well, John couldn't not look now..."Yes, that does explain...that"

Sherlock quickly grasped John's hand "Come along John."

"Right behind you," as they both stumbled towards Sherlock's bedroom.

Sherlock inelegantly launched himself onto the bed, flopped on his back, and arranged himself. John approached quickly, hovered over the naked form below him, when he felt Sherlock's hand press against his chest, pushing him slightly back.

"Oh no, John. I shall not be the only naked person in this room. Strip. This minute"

John stood back and pulled the untied bow tie out with a stripper's flair. He started to work the buttons on his tuxedo shirt, and then began to fumble. Why were the buttons so bloody tiny? Cuff links, caught on the holes... cummerbund, damn it, where is the clasp...

"Come on John!"

"I'm trying Sherlock!" He laughed at Sherlock's impatience, as John grappled with his complicated clothing.

Then he saw Sherlock slide his left hand down to his hardening erection to give a press of his palm, pushing out a moan from the man that was ...oh my God.

Ok, not so funny now... must move faster. Jacket, suspenders, vest, trousers, pants, socks, shoes and now... John practically leapt towards the bed. Sherlock again raised his hand up to stop him.

"Sherlock, my God, what!" John shouted impatiently, as he settled back onto his heels.

Sherlock smiled... a seductive smile at that. A smile that slowed John's mind down and sped his heart rate up all at the same time. And that searching look, that started at John's eyes, and scanned horizontally, section by section, part by part.

"You want to take a look?" John said as he raised his arms up and glanced down to his bare body.

Sherlock hummed in affirmation. "I need to observe the scene first, before disturbing it... plan my approach."

"Want me to turn round for you" John said somewhat sarcastically, but Sherlock responded quickly,

"Yes, please, that would be most helpful John"

John huffed a bit as he shifted his feet. "Am I your latest case then Sherlock? Investigating Dr. John Watson?" He said laughingly as he made a complete circle.

"Indeed John, you certainly are a great mystery to me. Worth a very thorough investigation." Sherlock said as plainly as possible coupled with a ravenous gaze.

John could do nothing but gulp under the weight of such a hungry look.

Apparently Sherlock had seen enough, and a gave flick of his eyes, to beckon John over. John moved somewhat hesitantly now that he knew Sherlock may have more of a plan than John did, about how to, well...

"Stop thinking John. I can hear it echoing about the room" Sherlock demanded. "Just come here" his voice had a slight breathless quality.

John nodded his head and pressed his right knee into the bed, between Sherlocks knobby legs. The bed sank under his weight as he stretched out to place both hands down, on either side of Sherlock's head. He slid his left knee to be just on the edge of the bed and started to lower himself down. His dangly bits, that dangled down, made the first contact with Sherlock's skin, and the spark it created caused them both to gasp a bit, but John did not slow his descent.

He slotted in and fitted where he could, skin on skin contact that started in their hips, rolled through their abdomens, and thighs, until as much as possible was touching.

And if that wasn't overwhelming enough, John shifted and gave a firm press down. Both their faces had stretched out towards a kiss, but that movement was halted and sound was generated from the sensation of their bodies pressed together.

John moaned a non-word while Sherlock groaned John's name like a sexy deduction he had just made, excitedly announced "John!", as the cause of the short circuit that had just happened in Sherlock's brain and the increase of the tensile hardness level of his penis.

John figured out that not every possible inch was in contact and quickly remedied this as he covered Sherlock's lips with his own.

The flick of John's tongue against the inside of Sherlock's upper lip, caused a reflexive response in Sherlock, whose arms instantly flew down to grasp John... right there... just there where Sherlock had so... many... times imagined being able to grab and feel the muscled backside, knead it firmly. Oh so much better than he had imagined.

It became an experiment of action and reaction

The opening of Sherlock's mouth led to a slide in of John's seeking tongue.

Sherlock's thrust upward of his hips, caused all the blood flow needed for thought to be bypassed to John's cock.

The friction of their thighs sliding past each other created a wave of goosebumps across... everywhere.

Kissing led to licking which led to panting

Panting led to moaning

Moaning led to grinding, and then grinding harder, sliding and touching of all possible skin, faster, faster. And it is not enough, oh... my... God.

And then...

John suddenly found himself on his back, with the air he needed to breath catching up to him slightly slower than helpful.

Sherlock hovered over him, but not pressed against him.

Well, that made no sense at all. Have to fix that, John thought to himself as he stretched his neck up to kiss the creature whom had become the entire embodiment of John's desire.

Even John's penis was smart enough to know that this was an intolerable situation, and jutted straight up towards the warm skin that was right up there.

"Slow down John."

Sherlock said _Slow down John_ , which John interpreted as _Go faster._

He whined in response and reached up to wrap his arms around those shoulders sculpted by artisans, and attempted to pull down.

Sherlock pulled back and panted "No, no, John, we have to slow down."

"What...what... I don't understand" as John comically craned his lips out to try to catch...

"I will ejaculate all over you, right now if you do not stop touching me" Sherlock said loudly and matter of factly.

Oh. Yes, well, John heard that loud and clear. And certainly could sympathize.

"Right, yes, of course. Sorry." John slowed his breathing to try to get under control. Sherlock gave John a quick nod, glad that John understood.

Sherlock pulled in and pushed out air, shifted his hands to either side of John's shoulders, straightened his long arms while he slid both legs to fit between John's.

He was careful not to rub their cocks together at all, because that would be not good. Well... it would be fantastic, but not conducive to be able to last longer than one more minute.

John watched as Sherlock fitted himself in slowly, carefully, and John tried to keep still as Sherlock arched his back, raised his hips up, tilted his head down, and seemed to watch their bodies line up before he pressed their bodies back together... John hoped anyways.

Much to John's surprise, the detective kept on the move and suddenly John found that the tip of his dick was engulfed by a hot, wet mouth.

A more than ready mouth, as demonstrated by Sherlock's unfazed response to John's unconcious attempt to drive his entire length of his cock down Sherlock's throat.

"Oh - Sherlock! God..." John growled out and then panted. "Sorry, That's... ugh.. mmm... not... uh... not slowing things down. That's sp-sp-speeding things up" he bit into his bottom lip and fisted the sheets by his hips, to stop his hands from pulling Sherlock off or pushing him further down, John hadn't decided on which he was trying to stop himself from.

Sherlock slid his mouth off just enough to talk, he moved his lips against the head of the cock Sherlock so dearly wanted to continue doing things to,

"It's helping me slow down. John, I am certain this is not the first time you've been fellated. Surely you have a demonstrated method of preventing ejaculating too quickly."

"A method? You mean like think of the queen or something?"

Sherlock slid his mouth down once again and hummed in affirmation.

"Th-that's not helping... ohh Sherlock... mmmm. I am willing to try" John said with a surrendering sigh. John had started to go boneless and mindless anyways. Didn't matter any more - his performance, endurance, prowess as a lover. Didn't matter if he came down Sherlock's throat in the next two minutes. That concern melted away as he felt the pressure of Sherlock's delicious tongue as it swirled around and then slid up and down. As his mouth and cheeks created a gentle suction, oh god... He pressed himself back into the bed to think of the queen but then realized he had to see for himself.

Raven curls moved where he would normally see his penis, and knowing that it was tucked into Sherlock's mouth right now, ok, that thought was not helpful.

Sherlock's long fingers splayed against his abdomen and at the base of his cock. John could see scarring on his left hand

Ok, that may be work to take the edge off, to think about the injury Sherlock had sustained in Turkey.

His eyes traveled across the broad shoulders, down the expanse of Sherlock's back. Textured skin there on the right side, burned... that must have been Morocco.

Stab wound on the left side, nearly punctured his lung, if John recalled the reports from Nigeria.

Down, at the base of his spine, drag marks, from... What were those from?

Sherlock straightened up and sat back on his heels, John looked up at his face and asked, "What?"

"Mmm, worked a bit too well."

And they both looked down at John's nearly flaccid penis, seemingly ashamed of itself.

Sherlock spoke without looking at John, he couldn't look at him.

"Find me physically repulsive then, it seems. I had thought you of all people may be a bit more open minded about scars" Sherlock said as he gestured to the large angry scar on John's shoulder. He could not effectively mask the hurt on his face, considering the fairly venerable state he was in. He glanced at the door.

John instantly moved to stop Sherlock from bolting out of the room. "No, no Sherlock! That's not it."

They stood naked, toe to toe in Sherlock's bedroom.

"No?"

"No, God no, of course not Sherlock!"

Sherlock flicked his eyes down to John's offensively soft organ, and then back up to John. The look on his face challenged John to explain, if he could.

"Yes, I got distracted. By the scars. For a moment, that's all. Thinking about what you went through. That I should have been there"

Sherlock looked down shaking his head.

"I find you devastatingly attractive. Ridiculous, really, how much so. You're so perfect, for me. Please don't ever think otherwise. Please, Sherlock, look at me," John said as he reached out to lift the man's face by his chin that was pressed to his chest. He stepped forward and embraced him.

John stared at Sherlock, who looked so dismayed and stricken with doubt. Not the way John wanted him to feel their first time together.

Their naked bodies pressed together intimately, as John ran his fingers across each of the scars on Sherlock's back.

"You will chide me for sentiment. I was thinking about how my scar brought me to you, and yours showed me just how much you wanted to be brought back to me."

Sherlock shifted to get closer, and rested his head on John's shoulder. He took in a deep cleansing breath.

"I could agree with that sentiment." Sherlock sighed in John's arms.

John hummed in agreement. He let go and walked Sherlock back to the bed. They sat down next to each other and knocked knees together.

"Are we going to, you know.." Sherlock asked, gestured to the bed.

"How do you feel about it?" John asked, at which Sherlock simply shrugged his shoulders.

"I see." John looked at Sherlock. "I have an idea, can we try again?"

Sherlock nodded hesitantly.

"Good. Lay down on your right side." John stood to allow room for Sherlock to do so. He pulled his legs up, folded his right arm under a pillow, and rested his head down.

John circled and crawled onto the bed behind Sherlock. And then he stopped and really looked at Sherlock's back.

Sherlock fidgeted. He couldn't help but think, that this was exactly the opposite of what he wanted. He wanted to forget the scars were even there, maybe turn the lights out or something, so John wouldn't have to be exposed to the hideousness.

John arranged himself to lay just behind, but still able to look at Sherlock's back. John propped his right elbow against his head and draped his left arm around to Sherlock's chest and started to rub circles, grabbing bits of pectoral muscle, pinching a soft nipple to hardness, pressing his palm into Sherlock's strong stomach. He let his hand glance over Sherlock's penis, which started to show some interest again. John kept touching until he felt Sherlock's body relax.

He sat up to bring his right hand over to the first scar he saw, the burns, as his left hand encircled Sherlock's penis firmly.

Sherlock gasped at the feel, of John's hand wrapped around him, of a thumb as it traced the scar. And then John's lips ghosting over it as he spoke.

"We all have parts of our bodies we don't want others to see." He nipped at the tough skin.

"Not all of us are Adonis's with zero body fat, like you."

A long stroke and a wet kiss with a swirling tongue, then Sherlock moaned obscenely.

"And I hate you seeing how old, wrinkled and broken down my body is, compared to your perfect, lithe form."

Sherlock was about to protest verbally, when John pressed his renewed erection against Sherlock's wondrous backside.

Sherlock made such an amazing sound in response, that John had to catch his breath before he moved down to the puncture wound.

"Part of me wants to turn out the lights before you see how soft my tummy is getting."

He flicked his tongue into the valley of the scar just as he gave Sherlock's cock a few more swift strokes. A low rumbling groan traveled through Sherlock's chest.

"But I am not ashamed. And I know my body will not be improving with age, unlike you who seems to defy the passage of time. You will have to love me the way I am."

"Yes, John, I do, you're perfect. Simply perfect. You can't think..."

Sherlock tried to turn around, but John stopped him and interrupted with a lustful growl "And then neither can you, think that you are anything but everything I want. You are never to hide any part of you. I want it all."

John pulled the whole of his body tight against Sherlock, frantically grinded his hips against Sherlock, he pressed back. John vigorously stroked Sherlock's firm cock in his hand. Sherlock arched his back while John kissed, licked and nibbled at any piece of flesh he could reach.

"Do you understand Sherlock? I want every part of you"

"Yes, oh God yes, John, please, please."

"What do you want Sherlock? Tell me."

"I...I don't know, just, I want... more." Sherlock writhed as he was pressed again from behind, and then was pulled to lay on his back.

"John! Oh John! Mmm, yes!" was the response John got as he quickly swallowed the head of Sherlock's cock, sucked hard, and then slid his mouth up and down, over and over.

Sherlock couldn't stop it, the sound of John grunting and moaning as he took Sherlock in, the feel of that clever tongue finding all the right spots, the back and forth of John's hand as he stroked himself. The pressure built so fast that he barely had a chance to warn John.

"John, I..." And then he cried out, as he released into John's mouth. John unsuccessfully tried to suck, swallow, and have his own orgasm all the the same time. A muffled, sloppy moan ripped out of his throat. He chuckled as he rested his forehead against the inside of Sherlock's thigh, and caught his breath.

As Sherlock came down from his own high, he brought his hands to his head and ran his fingers through his hair, made him look even more debauched.

John slowly crawled up and dropped down beside Sherlock. They panted together,

"Mmm, that was..."

"Yes... Yes... It was."

* * *

"Mycroft, I don't think we should do this". Greg whispered softly, as they hovered close together in the doorway, with dawn's light behind them as it broke across the sky.

"I have to know Gregory" Mycroft whispered back, pleaded.

"Okay, okay, I'll go in with you" Greg reached for the keys and opened the door.

They both tip toed in, and quietly as possible, crept up the stairs. Mycroft followed behind the detective, perhaps closer than required, but given their evening together...

As they reached the landing, they turned towards the sitting room and found two towels, laying on the floor a few feet apart, but nothing else out of the ordinary.

"I would have thought you'd have had the placed wired," Greg asked, as he looked over the rest of the room.

"I did. I do believe that the good doctor made use of his idle time while he waited for my brother," Mycroft said as he lifted a glass of brandy, which had in it, settled at the bottom, a handful of micro cameras. Several thousand pounds worth of surveillance equipment.

Greg gave a laugh.

"I'm sure all is well then" Greg said, as he gestured to the hallway.

Mycroft raised a single eyebrow, turned on his heel, and slid towards Sherlock's bedroom door.

Greg quickly followed behind, and grabbed Mycroft by the arm.

"That's not on Mycroft. You can't look in there. What if they are, you know. In there... together"

"That's precisely what I need to know, Gregory." He stared hard into the man.

Overnight, Greg had gotten a swift education on just how far Mycroft Holmes would go to protect his brother, as the man told the tale of the last few years. There was nothing he wouldn't do and many things Sherlock would never know he had done.

This manic need was manifesting itself here, in perhaps an inappropriate way. But Greg understood it, now, that Mycroft would find a way, so Greg relented.

Mycroft hovered his hand over the door knob, gave it a slow turn and crept in. The low light level made it difficult to see, and Mycroft felt a bit crestfallen when it appeared that only one person was sleeping in the bed. Greg took a step in and looked over as well, as a sleepy moan and rustle of sheets happened. The single form split into two.

Mycroft... He had always hoped for this, for Sherlock.

Their mother had forced Mycroft to have a singular life of politics and power. Admittedly, he learned to love it, but there was no room for him to have this.

As his mother became harsher and harder on the young man, she withheld love and affection from Sherlock, much more so than she had with Mycroft.

And even though he, at times, colluded with his mother to force Sherlock to take the same path, part of him was elated when Sherlock finally found a path of his own. And that he could have this.

Mycroft released a weight that he felt he had been carrying for decades. Sherlock was in love and was loved.

Greg watched the man melt before him and took a step into his space to catch his eye. Mycroft looked at Greg and smiled. He nodded towards the bed and whispered. "Young love."

Greg nodded and smiled in response.

"I'm sure there's a fitting poem about it" Mycroft said uncertainly.

"Countless. Don't like poetry?" Greg asked.

Mycroft shook his head, "Not really my area."

There was a tiny chuckle, and Sherlock's voice boomed, "It's not funny John". And then Sherlock sat straight up, whipped around, and flung the sheet off of him to stare at his elder brother.

"Get the hell out of my bedroom Mycroft, you interfering git!"

Mycroft took a step towards the bed to speak, but Greg pulled him back.

"Apologies. We'll be leaving." Mycroft tried to press on, but Greg held firm and stared the man down "Now, Mycroft. Leaving now. Sorry lads."

The detective physically herded Mycroft out of the bedroom and closed the door behind him. As it latched, there was the sound of Sherlock's deep laughter overlaid with John's twittering giggle.

They listened for the front door to close before they pulled their bodies back together.

"Mycroft and Greg were just... um, what was that about?"

"Really John?"

"What?"

"Go back to sleep, I'll explain it to you later."

John sighed contentedly as he nestled into the crook of Sherlock's shoulder. And he thought for a moment before he bolted up and smiled down at Sherlock.

"Really?".

Sherlock nodded his head, feigning disgust. "Never mention it again John."

He gave a laugh and laid back down. He'd have to take the detective inspector out for a pint some time soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you read this far, thanks. 
> 
> I've written this story on a plane, a train, being driven about, all on my IPad or Iphone. That tiny screen and autocorrect makes me want to scream somedays. And I make huge grammar, spelling, all kinds of mistakes, because I am in a rush.   
> So, thanks for motivating me by reading and making comments, they have all been helpful.
> 
> In 2001 my best friend was murdered during a robbery, he was 27. For weeks after, I called his voicemail to talk to him, to hear his voice and finally to say goodbye. His mother knew and kept the phone active, so everyone could have a chance to say goodbye. There were hundreds of messages left by friends and family. And I am so thankful that our last conversation was about just how much our friendship meant.


End file.
